THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


THE   GLENALOON 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 

FRANCIS     A.    DURIVAGE. 


NEW    YORK: 

TROWS   PRINTING   AND   BOOKBINDING   CO. 

201-213  EAST  TWELFTH  STREET, 

1881. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
MRS.   ALFRED   BENNETT 

1 88  r. 


TROW'S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
201-213  East  nth  Street, 

NEW   YORK. 


{Dedication. 


TO     THOSE     WHO     REMEMBER 

MR.    DURIVAGE, 

MANY     OF     THEM     HIS     LIFE-LONG     FRIENDS, 
THIS     VOLUME     OF     HIS     POEMS     IS    DEDICATED, 
BY     HIS     DAUGHTER, 

M.     RITCHIE    DURIVAGE    BENNETT. 


CONTENTS. 


Abd-el-Kader  and  Napoleon  III.,    .         .         .         .  .   156 

All, in 

Andreas  Hofer,       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .152 

Antoinette,          .........         68 

Apropos  des  Bottes, 125 

Au  Revoir, 55 

Autumn,         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .          .         .174 

Autumn  Musings,         ........         45 

Bartlett,  William  S.,  in  Memory  of,         .         .          .         .         -52 

Betrayer,  The,    .........        199 

Biographical  Sketch,  A,  .         .         .         .         .  9 

Bride,  the  Lion's,         .         .         .         .         .         .          .         .         61 

Burning  the  Letters, 86 

Cavalry  Charge,  The, .         .         .112 

Charenton,      ..........     81 

Chez  Brebant,      .........        104 

Christianos  ad  Leones,    .          .         .         .         .         .         .         .183 

Crewless  Ship,  The, 133 

Death  and  Life, 161 


vi  Contents. 

Drifting, 154 

Duff,  Robert,  In  Memoriam  of,  .         .         .          .         .53 

Fairy  Bottines,  The 141 

Fifine  of  Normandy,        ....          ....     46 

Flag  on  Sumter,  The,          .......         94 

Forrest,  Edwin,      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .167 

For  the  King!    .         .          .         .         .         .         .         .         .178 

France,  .         .         . .181 

Glenaloon,  The,  .         .         .         ,         .         .         .         .         .         41 

Good-Night, .         .         .163 

Hymn,        ....         ......         89 

Hussar  and  His  Horse,  The,  .         .         .         .         .  .172 

Indian  Summer,  The,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .192 

In  Memory  of  James  Oakes,    .         ,         .         .         .         .         .175 

In  Memoriam  of  Robert  Duff,     .         .         .         .         .         .          53 

In  Memory  of  William  S.  Bartlett, 52 

Irish  Volunteers,  The,          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         58 

Italy 179 

Jackson,  The  Sword  of,  65 

Jerry, .     78 

Lafayette, 148 

Lancer  of  the  Guard,  The 138 

Lines  Written  at  Sea, 150 

Lion's  Bride,  The, .         .61 

Little  White  Mice,  The, 76 

Lovely  Fishermaiden,  The,  .          .         .          .         .          .168 

Look  in  Thy  Heart  and  Write, 176 


Contents.  vii 

Love  and  Reason,  .........     49 

Man  in  Gray,  The,      . 146 

Moonlight  on  the  Highlands,  .         .     '    .         .         .         .92 

My  Little  Sisters, 56 

Night,  a  Vision  of  the,    .         .         ,         .         .         .         .         .80 
Oakes,  James,  In  Memory  of,      .         .         .         .         .  175 

Oh,  No!  He  Never  Mentions  It, 57 

Oh  !  Why  are  the  Roses  so  Pale  ? 147 

Old  Corporal,  The, 169 

Old  Homestead,  The, 100 

Old  Mill- Wheel,  The, 188 

Old  Year  and  the  New,  The, 73 

Only  a  Word, 61 

On  the  Sea  Beach,       .....         ...       131 

Onward, 165 

Paris, -74 

Pretty  Cigar  Girl  of  Paris,  The, 118 

Rhyme  of  the  Rhine,  The, 123 

Remember  the  Alamo, 90 

Salut  a  la  France, 128 

Santa  Anna  to  his  Army, 102 

Sauntaug  Lake,  Lynnfield,  Mass., 194 

Scotland, 50 

Sea,  the  Voice  of  the, 67 

Sea-Side  Visions, .         .  187 

Serenade,     .         .     *   .         .         .         .         •         •         •         •       145 
Sleep  of  Napoleon,  The, '  .         .95 


viii  Contents. 

Song 64,  107,  115 

Sons  of  Erin  !  to  the  Battle  ! 203 

Souvenir  de  Lucerne,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .121 

Spanish  Wreck,  The, 190 

Spring, .         .no 

Sword  of  Jackson,  The,  .......     65 

Thiers,         .  71 

To  Alice, .         .         -93 

To  H.  H 48 

To  Harry  Bennett, 117 

To  My  Daughter, 106,  199 

To  My  Dear  Niece,  Rosa  B.  Hunt, 186 

To  Victor  Hugo,         ........         85 

Unfurl  the  Flag, 108 

Vision  of  the  Night,  A,       . 80 

Volunteers,  the  Irish, 58 

Voice  of  the  Sea,  The, 67 

Vorwaerts !  Immer  Worwaerts,       .         .         .         .         .         .159 

Weather,  The, 202 

Winter  Roundelay,  A,    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .   195 


FRANCIS  ALEXANDER   DURIVAGE. 


A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


BY  W.  S.  CHASE. 

SHALL  a  man  devote  himself  exclusively  to  litera 
ture,  or  shall  he  pursue  some  trade  or  profession 
as  an  epyoi/,  a  business,  and  literature  as  a  Trapepyov,  an 
accessory  or  mere  by-business  ?  The  discussion  of  this 
question  by  Coleridge  and  De  Quincey  led  those  writers 
from  their  different  points  of  view  to  diametrically  op 
posite  conclusions.  Coleridge  solemnly  adjured  the 
aspirant  to  literary  distinction — "  Never  pursue  litera 
ture  as  a  trade!"  while  De  Quincey  as  solemnly  de 
clared  one  point  to  be  clear  to  his  judgment — "that 
literature  must  decay,  unless  we  have  a  class  wholly 
dedicated  to  that  service,  not  pursuing  it  as  an  amuse 
ment,  only  with  weary  and  pre-occupied  minds."  Here, 
as  in  most  cases,  the  truth  of  the  matter  probably  lies 
somewhere  between  extreme  opinions  on  both  sides.  As 
one  result  of  future  experiments  in  organizing  American 
society,  it  may  be  found  worth  more  than  it  will  cost  to 
spare  out  of  our  overstocked  trades  and  professions  and 
to  completely  equip  and  adequately  compensate  men 
enough  to  compose,  as  De  Quincey  suggests,  a  garrison 


io  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

on  permanent  duty  for  the  service  of  the  highest  pur 
poses  which  grace  and  dignify  our  nature.  It  will  then 
be  manifest  that  singleness  of  aim  is  no  less  indispen 
sable  to  excellence  and  success  in  literature  than  in  any 
other  line  of  human  effort.  Even  now  the  volunteer  in 
the  noble  service  of  literature  must  give  himself  up  to  it 
without  reserve  or  limitation — he  enlists  "for  the  war" 
and  can  count  on  no  furlough.  But  in  order  to  serve 
efficiently  he  must  have  an  income  sufficient  to  feed, 
clothe,  and  shelter  him  and  those  dependent  on  him,  and 
fully  to  arm  and  equip  him  for  his  chosen  work.  To  be 
sane,  sound,  and  happy  let  him  derive  such  an  income 
from  some  epyoi/,  a  regular  employment  which  does  not 
depend  on  the  will  of  the  moment,  and  which  can  be 
carried  on  so  far  mechanically  that  an  average  quantum 
only  of  health,  spirits,  and  intellectual  exertion  is  requi 
site  to  its  faithful  discharge.  He  may  then  hope  to  res 
cue  from  a  few  evenings,  or  mornings,  the  leisure  need 
ful  and  sufficient  for  a  larger  product  in  literature  of 
what  is  truly  genial  than  would  be  yielded  by  whole 
days  and  weeks  of  compulsory  authorship. 

The  late  Francis  Alexander  Durivage  was,  during  the . 
greater  part  of  his  life,  a  signal  example  of  the  advan 
tages  of  having  both  an  epyoi/  and  a  Trapepyop,  and  of 
complying  faithfully  with  the  demands  of  each.  It  is  at 
once  a  lesson  and  an  encouragement  to  find  how  much 
he  was  able  to  do  in  the  way  of  self-culture,  mental  dis 
cipline,  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  and  the  develop 
ment  of  exceptional  talents  as  a  writer  of  prose  and 
verse,  and  as  a  draughtsman  and  painter.  What  admir- 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  11 

able  use  he  made  of  unusual  gifts,  accomplishments,  and 
opportunities  !  How  creditable,  both  in  quantity  and 
quality,  was  the  literary  and  artistic  work  achieved  by 
him  in  addition  to  the  honest  and  satisfactory  discharge 
of  his  duties  as  a  Government  official,  as  a  private  citi 
zen,  as  neighbor,  friend,  husband,  and  father !  As  a 
journalist  he  fortunately  was  never  exposed  to  being 
hampered  and  humiliated  by  any  expectation  (impossi 
ble  in  his  case)  that  he  might  become  either  a  mere 
mouthpiece  of  some  stupid  and  pompous  political  boss, 
or  a  mere  amanuensis  of  some  rich  ignoramus,  who  fan 
cies  that  a  supply  of  brains  can  be  bought  cheap  for 
cash,  and  that  a  newspaper,  like  a  paper-mill,  or  rum- 
mill,  or  any  mill,  is  to  be  run  solely  to  make  money  or 
to  further  other  selfish  interests.  Although  a  frequent 
and  copious  writer  for  magazines  as  well  as  newspapers, 
Mr.  Durivage  wholly  escaped  the  wretchedness  depicted 
with  such  forcible  truth  by  Talfourd  as  "the  lot  of  those 
self-fancied  poets  and  panting  essayists  who  live  on  from 
volume  to  volume,  or  from  magazine  to  magazine,  who 
tremble  with  nervous  delight  at  a  favorable  mention,  are 
cast  down  by  a  sly  alliteration  or  satirical  play  on  their 
names,  and  die  of  an  elaborate  eulogy"  in  aromatic 
pain.  They  live  in  the  lying  breath  of  contemporary 
report,  and  bask  out  a  sort  of  occasional  holiday  in  the 
glimmer  of  public  favor.  They  are  always  in  a  feverish 
struggle,  yet  they  make  no  progress.  There  is  no  dra 
matic  coherence,  no  unity  of  action  in  the  tragi-comedy 
of  their  lives.  They  have  hits  and  brilliant  passages, 
perhaps,  which  may  come  on  review  before  them  in 


12  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

straggling  succession ;  but  nothing  dignified  or  massive, 
tending  to  one  end  of  good  or  evil.  They  begin  life 
once  a  quarter,  or  once  a  month,  according  to  the  will 
of  their  publishers.  They  dedicate  nothing  to  posterity ; 
but  toil  on  for  applause  till  praise  sickens,  and  their 
"  life's  idle  business "  grows  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 
They  give  their  thoughts  im maturely  to  the  world,  and 
thus  spoil  them  for  themselves  forever.  Their  own 
earliest  and  deepest  and  most  sacred  feelings  become  at 
last 'dull  commonplaces,  which  they  have  talked  of  and 
written  about  until  they  are  glad  to  escape  from  the 
theme.  Their  days  are  not  "  linked  each  to  each  by 
natural  piety,"  but  at  best  bound  together  in  forgotten 
volumes.  Better,  far  better  than  this,  is  the  lot  of  those 
whose  characters  and  pretensions  have  little  "mark  of 
likelihood,"  whose  days  are  filled  up  by  the  exercises 
of  honest  industry,  and  who,  on  looking  back,  recognize 
their  lives  only  by  the  turns  of  their  fortune,  or  the 
events  which  have  called  forth  their  affections."  Of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  everyday  real  life — often  stranger 
and  of  more  thrilling  interest  than  fiction— and  over 
which  George  Eliot,  the  greatest  of  modern  novelists, 
wisely  chose  to  reign,  contentedly  hiding  therein  her  own 
splendid  individuality  and  selecting  therefrom  her  favor 
ite  heroines  and  heroes.  Among  the  latter  Durivage 
was  well  worthy  to  stand,  for,  voluntarily  chaining  him 
self  to  the  wheel  of  everyday  life,  he  resisted  all  tempta 
tion  to  the  extravagances  of  thought  and  action  which 
too  often  lead  the  ill-regulated  genius  astray  ;  and  his 
constancy  in  ever  doing  "  the  duty  that  lies  nearest " 


,    A  Biographical  Sketch.  13 

gave  solidity  to  floating  minutes,  hours,  and  days,  put 
ting  into  his  life  the  harmony,  the  proportion  that  be 
longs  pre-eminently  to  the  lives  of  those,  happiest  of  all, 
who,  with  one  great  aim,  with  one  idea  of  practical  or 
visionary  good  to  which  they  are  wedded,  devote  their 
undivided  energy  to  a  single  pursuit. 

Francis  Alexander  Durivage  was  born  at  Boston, 
Massachusetts,  on  April  7,  1814,  in  the  midst  of  the 
second  war  of  the  United  States  for  independence.  The 
stirring  incidents  of  that  war  (1812-1814),  the  struggle 
of  the  South  American  republics  against  Spanish  misrule 
(1810-1819),  and  that  of  Greece  against  Turkish  despot 
ism  (1822-1829),  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  I.,  Emperor 
of  the  French,  his  sudden  return  from  the  island  of  Elba 
(March  i,  1815),  his  brief  restoration  of  the  empire,  and 
his  final  defeat  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo  (June  18,  1815), 
and  the  French  Revolution  of  1830,  were  among  events 
nearly  synchronous  with  the  period  that  covered  the  in 
fancy  and  youth  of  Durivage.  He  was  about  ten  years 
of  age  when  Lafayette,  the  friend  and  companion-in-arms 
of  Washington,  revisited  the  United  States,  and  every 
where  revived  the  memories  of  our  first  war  for  indepen 
dence.  The  illustrious  French  General  met  with  no 
heartier  welcome  than  the  famous  apostrophe  with  which 
Edward  Everett  concluded  his  oration  before  the  Phi-Beta- 
Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  College,  at  Cambridge,  Massa 
chusetts,  in  1824,  an  oration  which  will  always  remain  a 
model  of  American  eloquence.  Durivage,  boy  as  he  was 
at  the  time  of  Lafayette's  memorable  visit  to  America  in 
1824,  shared  the  more  fully  in  the  enthusiasm  awakened 


14  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

by  the  nation's  guest,  from  the  fact  that  his  own  paternal 
grandfather,  was,  like  Lafayette,  a  Frenchman  of  noble 
descent.  This  grandfather,  a  scion  of  an  ancient  family 
in  Brittany,  the  Caillauds,  whose  ancestral  honors  dated 
from  before  the  first  Crusade  (ending  in  1099),  came  to 
New  England  from  the  island  of  Martinique,  which  was 
discovered  by  Christopher  Columbus  in  1502  and  settled 
by  French  colonists  from  St.  Christopher's  in  1635.  In 
New  England  and  in  Martinique  he  adopted  the  sur 
name  of  Du  Rivage,  a  territorial  name  of  the  Caillauds, 
and  his  gravestone  in  a  churchyard  at  New  London, 
Conn.,  bears  this  inscription,  "  Fran£ois  Nicolas  Caillaud 
Durivage.  Died  October  5,  1794,  Aged  51  years."  His 
son,  Francis  Shute  Durivage,  for  many  years  a  merchant, 
and  also  well  known  as  a  professor  of  painting  and  the 
French  language,  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  married  in 
that  city  a  lady  of  rare  worth  and  intelligence,  the  sister 
of  Alexander  and  Edward  Everett,  both  of  whom  became 
eminent  orators,  statesmen,  and  diplomatists.  The 
former,  before  being  United  States  Minister  to  China, 
was  President  of  the  University  of  Louisiana,  and  the 
latter,  after  being  United  States  Minister  to  England,  was 
President  of  Harvard  University,  and,  during  the  mem 
orable  Presidential  campaign  of  1860,  he  was  the  candi 
date  of  the  Bell  and  Everett  party  for  the  Vice-Presidency 
of  the  nation.  In  1861  Mr.  Francis  A.  Durivage  be 
came  the  private  secretary  of  his  Uncle  Edward,  and 
gladly  improved  opportunities  for  discovering  how  much 
more  warmth  of  heart  as  well  as  intellectual  vigor  and 
substantial  learning  than  the  world  generally  knew 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  15 

abounded  beneath  the  dignified  and  apparently  cold  ex 
terior  of  the  celebrated  orator. 

If  the  late  Mr.  George  Ripley  had  lived  to  complete 
his  projected  "-History  of  Boston  Culture,"  he  could  not 
have  omitted  as  one  of  its  chief  elements  the  influence 
of  more  than  one  family,  which,  like  the  Everett  family, 
united  the  best  European  and  American  characteristics 
of  home  life,  that  bright  consummate  flower  of  modern 
civilization.  In  such  a  family  Francis  Durivage  was  born 
and  nurtured.  He  grew  up  a  true  Boston  boy,  but  it 
would  be  interesting  and  suggestive  to  trace  how  Boston 
surroundings  affected  without  changing  the  essentially 
French  texture  and  color  of  his  mind  and  temperament. 
Schoolmates  are  often  formed  and  instructed  as  much 
by  each  other  as  by  their  preceptors,  and  at  the  Latin 
school  which  Francis  early  entered  he  was  educated  and 
taught  not  only  by  the  best  teachers  of  the  day,  but  also 
by  close  companionship  with  bright  and  studious  lads, 
many  of  whom  subsequently  became  distinguished  men, 
as,  for  instance,  George  S.  Hillard,  Charles  Simmer, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  and  John  Fitzpatrick  (afterward, 
as  Bishop  of  Boston,  a  worthy  successor  of  Cardinal 
Cheverus).  With  several  of  these  early  associates  he 
was  united  by  ties  of  mutual  friendship  throughout  life. 
1  have  heard  more  than  one  of  them,  and  especially 
Bishop  Fitzpatrick,  speak  most  affectionately  of  him  and 
of  the  fair  blossoms  which  in  the  springtide  of  his  life 
promised  a  rich  and  fruitful  manhood.  His  talents  and 
character  had  been  quickened  to  an  almost  precocious 
development,  and  even  while  a  school-boy  he  gave  signs 


1 6  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

of  an  extraordinary  vocation  for  literature.  Without 
neglecting  at  all  his  regular  studies,  he  was  an  omniverous 
reader  of  the  best  miscellaneous  English  and  French 
books,  with  not  a  few  of  which  he  first  became  familiar 
by  stealth,  as  it  were,  behind  a  rampart  of  dictionaries 
piled  up  on  his  desk  at  the  Latin  school.  When  twelve 
or  thirteen  years  old  he  wrote,  in  prose  and  in  verse, 
many  "  pieces"  that  were  "  spoken  "  on  public  occasions 
by  his  schoolmates,  and  several  of  these  productions 
found  their  way  into  print  in  the  journals  of  Boston  and 
other  cities.  At  sixteen  years  of  age  he  became  himself 
an  editor,  and  brought  out  a  weekly  paper,  the  Amateur, 
among  the  contributors  to  which  were  names  of  brilliant 
promise  since  amply  fulfilled.  It  was  for  the  Amateur 
that  the  future  "Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-table,"  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  wrote  his  earliest  poem,  "  The  Last 
Leaf."  At  the  age  of  fourteen  Durivage  had  already 
begun  to  write  professedly  for  the  press,  and  for  many 
years  he  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  New  York 
Mirror,  the  Spirit  of  the  Times,  and  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine,  and,  subsequently,  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
and  to  the  Old  and  New,  which  was  so  ably  edited  by  his 
cousin,  Rev.  Edward  Everett  Hale,  who,  amidst  his  apos 
tolical  labors  as  preacher  and  pastor,  somehow  finds  time 
also  for  a  great  amount  and  variety  of  first-class  literary 
work.  Not  long  after  Mr.  Durivage  fairly  commenced 
his  journalistic  career,  he  attracted  the  attention  of  S.  G. 
Goodrich  (so  well  known  as  Peter  Parley),  who  hastened 
to  impress  him  into  the  useful  and  honorable  service  in 
which  he  deserves  the  credit  of  having  been  himself  a 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  17 

pioneer,  that  of  combining  entertainment  and  instruction 
in  books  for  juvenile  readers. 

Peter  Parley  is  said  to  have  shrewdly  exploited  to  his 
own  fame  and  profit  a  number  vtcollaborateurs,  whose  tal 
ents  he  claimed  to  have  first  discovered  and  made  known 
to  the  world.  Conspicuous  among  these  were  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  N.  P.  Willis,  Madame  Calderon  de  la  Barca, 
and  F.  A.  Durivage.  The  last-named  was  the  "working 
editor"  through  many  volumes  of  Peter  Parley 's Maga 
zine,  which  long  enjoyed  a  large  circulation  among  the 
youth  of  America  and  Great  Britain.  He  was  justly  per 
mitted  to  put  his  own  name  on  the  title-page  of  the 
"  Cyclopaedia  of  History,"  one  of  the  most  careful  and  ex 
tensive  of  the  compilations  contributed  by  him  to  Peter 
Parley's  works  (so-called).  While  toiling  industriously  as 
an  assistant  of  S.  G.  Goodrich,  Durivage  also  contributed 
largely  to  Buckingham's  New  England  Magazine,  then 
flourishing  under  the  editorship  of  Park  Benjamin.  In 
1840,  Simeon  Borden,  the  State  Engineer,  engaged  him 
as  draughtsman  to  prepare  for  the  engraver  the  Map  of 
Massachusetts.  To  reduce  to  order  and  beauty  a  maze 
of  topographical  lines  and  of  lettering  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  six  feet'  by  four  was  no  slight  task ;  but  Mr.  Duri 
vage  did  it  perfectly,  in  exact  imitation  of  copper-plate. 
He  soon  afterward  joined  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Boston 
Daily  Times,  at  the  head  of  which  he  long  remained. 
He,  moreover,  edited  for  several  years  The  Yankee  Blade. 
He  succeeded  Mr.  E.  H.  Chapin  as  editor  of  The  Symbol 
and  Odd  Fellows'  Magazine,  and  he  was  editorially  con 
nected  with  The  Olive  Branch,  and  other  Boston  publi- 


1 8  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

cations,  precursors  in  New  England  of  Bonner's  New 
York  Ledger  and  Street  and  Smith's  New  '  York  Weekly, 
which  have  had  such  an  immense  circulation  in  the  Mid 
dle,  Western,  and  Southern  States,  and  to  which,  also, 
at  a  later  period,  he  was  a  frequent  and  copious  contribu 
tor.  Whatever  complaints  over-fastidious,  carping  critics 
may  allege  against  weekly  newspapers  which  have  been 
so  prodigiously  successful  with  the  masses  of  the  people, 
no  historian  of  the  intellectual  progress  of  America  can 
overlook  their  importance,  if  only  in  having  diffused  a 
vast  amount  of.  information,  and  in  having  awakened  a 
taste  and  habit  of  reading,  the  consequences  of  which 
are  incalculable.  Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  these  and 
similar  publications  have  largely  helped  in  preparing  the 
public  mind  for  that  "  blessed  ministry  of  books  "  which 
Durivage  fully  enjoyed  and  valued,  "  and  which,"  as  a 
wise  old  writer  says,  "cannot  be  too  much  extolled." 
Durivage  and  his  fellow-workers  in  this  wide  field  de 
served  well  of  the  republic,  not  only  by  sowing  in  it  with 
seed  for  harvest,  to  be  reaped  by  countless  minds,  but 
also  by  fortifying  it  against  all  encroachments  of  immoral 
ity.  Intellectually,  no  less  than  morally,  the  high  standard 
of  morality  exacted  of  the  popular  fireside  newspapers  in 
the  United  States  is  of  inestimable  advantage. 

Durivage  is  likewise  entitled  to  a  no  less  inconsiderable 
-share  of  whatever  credit  is  due  to  the  prodigious  develop 
ment  and  beneficial  influences  of  illustrated  periodical 
literature  in  the  United  States.  He  was  for  nine  years 
associate  editor  of  the  first  pictorial  newspaper  published 
in  America,  not  only  supplying  much  of  its  letter-press, 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  19 

but  himself  contributing  to  its  illustrated  department 
many  architectural  and  other  designs,  which  he  drew  on 
wood  for  the  engravers.  When  Mr.  M.  M.  Ballon,  the  well- 
known  writer  and  publisher,  purchased  Gleason's  Pic 
torial^  Mr.  Durivage  became  assistant  editor  of  Balloits 
Pictorial  and  The  Flag  of  Our  Union,  contributing  to 
them  poems,  essays,  comic  sketches,  novelettes,  and  oc 
casionally  art  illustrations.  The  relations  between  Mr. 
Ballon  and  his  life-long  friend,  Mr.  Durivage,  happily 
illustrated  the  possibility  of  realizing,  even  before  the 
millennium,  an  ideal,  seldom  enough  realized,  of  the  po 
tential  relations  between  publisher  and  editor,  who  are 
usually  defined  as  natural  enemies.  While  I  had  editorial 
charge  of  Frank  Leslie's  Ilhistrated  Newspaper,  at  a 
much  later  period,  both  the  late  Mr.  Leslie  and  I  were 
glad  to  count  upon  Mr.  Durivage  as  an  occasional  con 
tributor  and  an  ever-judicious  adviser.  A  pamphlet  might 
be  filled  with  the  full  list  of  periodicals,  illustrated  or  not 
illustrated,  to  which  Mr.  Durivage  was,  at  various  times, 
a  frequent  and  welcome  contributor.  Many  bulky  vol 
umes  would  be  required  to  contain  the  innumerable 
"articles"  which  indicated  his  seemingly  exhaustless 
mental  resources  and  almost  incredible  literary  facility, 
and  which  proved  him  to  be  equally  successful  as  a  racon 
teur,  a  reviewer,  an  art-critic,  a  writer  of  political  "  lead 
ers,"  or  a  terse,  pungent  paragrapher.  Under  his  signature 
of  "The  Old  'Un,"  he  won  a  popularity  as  speedy  and 
as  universal  as  that  of  any  of  the  legion  of  "American 
Humorists"  who  have  since  followed  in  his  footsteps.  It 
may  safely  be  added  that  few  of  them  have  yet  overtaken 


2O  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

him,  and  none  have  surpassed  him  in  blending  both  wit 
and  humor  in  exhibitions  of  the  <:omic  phases  of  American 
life.  In -i  848  Mr.  Durivage  and  his  friend,  Capt.  Burn- 
hanij.  collected  their  fugitive  sketches  of  humorous 
characters,  most  of  which  had  appeared  in  Porter's  Spirit 
of  the  Times,  into  a  volume,  which  was  published  by 
Carey  &  Hart,  of  Philadelphia,  with  the  title  of  "  Stray 
Subjects,  by  the  Old  'Un  and  the  Young  'Un."  This 
volume  was  embellished  with  illustrations  by  Darley,  and 
it  had  a  large  sale.  In  1854  similar  success  attended 
the  publication  of  a  selection  from  Mr.  Durivage' s  graver 
writings,  with  the  title  of  "Life  Scenes  Sketched  in 
Light  and  Shadow."  In  1849,  Phillips,  Samson  &  Co. 
published  the  first  American  edition  of  Lamartine's  "  His 
tory  of  the  French  Revolution  of  1848  ;  Translated  by 
Francis  A.  Durivage  and  William  S.  Chase."  This  trans 
lation,  or  at  least  his  share  of  it,  attested  the  rare  capacity 
of  Mr.  Durivage  for  uniting  speed  with  excellence  in 
literary  work  (it  was  achieved  in  an  unprecedentedly  short 
time,  during  hours  snatched  from  sleep  and  a  pressure 
of  work  of  another  kind)  and  his  mastery  of  the  difficult 
art  of  a  translator.  "A  conscientious  translator  is  perpetu 
ally  drawn  in  opposite  directions  from  the  wish  to  accom 
plish  two  incompatible  objects — to  give  an  exact  repre 
sentation  of  his  original,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  make 
that  representation  an  idiomatic  one."  Durivage,  in 
translating  from  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  or  German, 
always  observed  the  rules  laid  down  and  so  well  exem 
plified  by  the  poet  Percival,  who  said,  "  My  first  principle 
is  that  the  version  be  recht  treu  ;  my  second,  that  it  be 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  21 

recht  gut :  that  is,  I  had  rather  it  be  strictly  faithful, 
though  a  little  inferior  in  composition,  than  that  it  be 
perfect  as  a  composition,  yet  unfaithful  to  the  original." 
The  numerous  translations  with  which  Mr.  Durivage  en 
riched  the  English  language  are  equally  true  and  good. 
He  was  one  of  the  best  and  most  faithful  of  translators. 

As  an  original  writer  he  signally  illustrated  the  fact 
that  "  only  when  a  man's  thoughts  issue  from  his  own  head 
and  heart,  can  they  come  forth  ready  clad  in  the  fittest 
words."  He  usually  wrote  with  the  spontaneity  and 
ease  with  which  the  Italian  improvisator e  recites.  Yet 
if  he  ever  verged  upon  a  dangerous  facility  he  was  pro 
tected  from  falling  into  faults,  which  might  otherwise  have 
been  inevitable,  by  holding  in  mind,  even  on  trivial  oc 
casions,  a  constant  sense  of  those  classical  models  of 
style  which  he  had  studied  early  and  late  until  they  had 
become  part  and  parcel  of  his  intellectual  being.  True 
to  his  French  origin,  he  deemed  clearness  and  direct 
ness  the  chief  merits  of  composition  ;  and  in  order  to 
attain  these  merits,  he  willingly  rejected  whatever  Horace 
could  have  condemned  as  "  purple  patchwork  tagged  on 
to  make  a  great  show."  Yea,  few  writers  have  had  at 
command  a  richer  vocabulary,  English  and  foreign,  or  a 
greater  store  of  poetical  imagery,  than  he.  He  was  fond 
of  quoting  with  approval  what  Niebuhr  said  to  Lieber  : 
"  Persons  who  have  never  tried  to  write  at  once  cor 
rectly,  do  not  know  how  easy  it  is,  provided  your  thoughts 
are  clear  and  well  arranged  ;  and  they  ought  to  be  so 
before  you  put  pen  to  paper."  In  the  Preface  to  the 
first  edition  of  Shakespeare,  the  editors  say  of  him,  "  His 


22  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

mind  and  hand  went  together :  and  what  he  thought,  he 
uttered  with  that  easiness  that  we  have  scarce  received 
from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers."  Much  "  copy  "  was  thus 
sent  by  Durivage  to  the  printer  without  a  blot ;  but  often 
in  prose  and  always  in  verse  he  showed  he  knew  that  per 
fection  can  be  approximated  only  at  the  expense  of  un 
sparing  erasures  and  interlineations.  Some  of  his  lyrics 
which  he  was  supposed  to  have  thrown  off  carelessly,  had 
really  been  subjected  by  him  to  the  most  patient  labor 
lima ;  to  this  they  owe  their  exquisite  finish  and  their 
wide  popularity.  The  very  ones  in  which  he  himself 
recognized  the  greatest  ease  and  nature  were  those  that 
had  been  the  most  slowly  elaborated.  Some  of  them, 
indeed,  seemed  to  be  dashed  off  at  a  heat,  but  it  was  the 
white  heat  of  a  fire  that  had  long  been  burning  within 
him.  For  surviving  relatives  and  friends  another  secret 
charm  of  his  best  verse  is  that,  at  least  between  the  lines, 
it  is  deeply,  even  when  unconsciously,  autobiographical. 
Still  another  charm  which  some  of  the  poems  in  this  col 
lection  possess  is  their  dramatic  spirit  and  tone.  The 
same  characteristic  belonged  to  the  historical  romances 
and  the  novelettes  and  even  the  character-sketches  with 
which  he  so  profusely  supplied  the  weekly  "  story- 
papers  "  and  magazines.  Each  story  had  a  carefully 
constructed  plot,  it  abounded  in  natural  and  appropriate 
dialogue  and,  throughout,  it  was  full  of  dramatic  action. 
His  novels  and  stories  have  therefore  been  justly  called 
"masterpieces  of  current  fictitious  literature," 

Mr.  Durivage  was  the  anonymous  author  of  a  number 
of  acting  plays.     He  wrote  one  drama,  "  Monaldi,"  based 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  23 

on  the  exquisite  tale,  bearing  that  title,  by  Washington 
Allston,,  the  celebrated  American  artist  and  poet,  Cole 
ridge's  and  the  elder  Dana's  friend,  to  whose  genius  that 
of  Durivage  was  closely  akin.  Miss  Laura  Keene,  a 
competent  judge,  said  of  Durivage's  "  Monaldi,"  after 
weighing  every  word  of  it,  that "  it  was  the  best  American 
play  ever  written,"  arid  a  similarly  favorable  opinion  was 
pronounced  by  one  of  the  ablest  critics  of  New  England. 
Even  in  the  mutilated  form  in  which  it  was  unfortunately 
produced  a  few  years  ago  at  a  New  York  theatre,  it  had  a 
successful  run,  and  if  restored  to  the  form  in  which  the 
author  offered  it  for  presentation,  it  would  be  sure  to  retain 
a  high  and  permanent  rank  on  the  stage.  Mr.  Durivage 
himself  made  of  his  original  play  a  French  version,  which 
a  Regnier,  D'Ennery,  or  a  Sardou  would  find  ready,  with 
but  very  slight  modifications,  to  be  brought  out  successfully 
in  Paris.  Mr.  Durivage  made  an  excellent  translation  of 
Victor  Hugo's  "  Ernani,"  and  prepared  it  for  the  Ameri 
can  stage.  His  own  taste  led  him,  as  a  play-writer,  to 
the  refined,  romantic,  and  sentimental,  "but,"  to  cite  his 
words,  "  the  public  now  seeks  the  stage  for  amusement 
solely.  Goldsmith  wrote  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,'  a  five 
act  farce — but  exquisite  foolery — which  will  flout  forever, 
while  many  a  splendid  argosy  has  gone  to  the  bottom.  » 
Gaudeamus  igitur  ! "  So,  toward  the  end  of  his  busy 
career,  Mr.  Durivage,  whose  comic  sketches  under  the 
signature  of  "The  Old  'Un  "  had  placed  him  in  the  front 
rank  of  American  humorists,  and  whose  life-long  study  of 
the  stage  and  its  requirements  eminently  qualified  him  to 
be  a  successful  comic  dramatist,  undertook  and  completed 


24  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

an  American  character  comedy  entitled  "  Dead  Broke." 
The  popular  predilection  is  for  plays  of  this  sort,  as  the 
success  of  Solon  Shingle,  Colonel  Sellers,  Mose,  Bardwell 
Slote,  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  Davy  Crockett  testifies.  The 
days  of  deep  tragedy  and  sanguinary  melodrama  have 
passed  away.  People  go  to  the  theatre  to  laugh  and  not 
to  weep.  Besides,  comic  play-writing  has  another  recom 
mendation  which  is  not  to  be  despised — "  there's  millions 
in  it." 

Mr.  Durivage's  literary  ventures,  it  has  been  remarked, 
all  proved  successful.  He  had,  to  a  high  degree,  the 
tact  of  an  experienced  journalist  in  choosing  the  right 
subjects  at  the  right  time.  Always  keeping  punctually 
his  engagements  with  publishers,  he  belonged  to  the  first 
of  the  two  classes  into  which  some  philosopher,  who  had 
perhaps  himself  been  a  publisher,  has  divided  not  only 
the  world  of  authors,  but  all  mankind — the  reliable  and 
the  unreliable.  His  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  his 
familiarity  with  business  habits,  spared  him  many  annoy 
ances  of  which  authors,  and  particularly  the  genus  ir- 
ritabile  of  poets,  often  complain,  with  or  without  reason. 
His  literary  and  editorial  work  commanded  not  only  the 
interest  and  approval  of  the  public,  but  also  a  ready 
market  and  liberal  pay  among  publishers.  Much  of  this 
work,  although  not  of  a  kind  to  win  for  him  personal 
fame,  enabled  him  to  acquire  a  handsome  competency,  in 
addition  to  savings  from  his  salary  as  a  Government 
official.  His  case  would  be  in  point  as  an  illustration  of 
the  benefits  which  would  accrue  to  the  public  as  well  as 
to  a  worthy  class  of  citizens  capable  of  deserving  well  of 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  2$ 

the  nation,  both  by  their  honest  discharge  of  administrative 
duties  and  their  assiduous  cultivation  of  literary  studies, 
if  such  a  thoroughly  organized  civil  service  should  be  put 
into  operation  as  many  far-sighted  reformers  have  pro 
posed  and  as,  at  length,  a  President  of  the  United  States 
has  been  found  intelligent  and  generous  enough  to  ap 
prove.  In  1843  Mr-  Durivage  was  appointed  Inspector 
of  Customs  in  his  native  city,  and  he  most  satisfactorily 
filled  similar  positions  for  many  years,  until  1860,  with 
out  any  abatement,  but  rather  to  the  advantage  of  his 
literary  and  artistic  pursuits.  Under  President  Franklin 
Pierce's  administration  (1853-1857)  he  was  appointed  at 
first  Private  Secretary  to  Charles  H.  Peaslee,  Collector 
for  the  port  of  Boston,  then  Clearance  Clerk,  and,  still 
later,  Assistant  Deputy  Surveyor.  In  each  and  all  of 
these  positions  he  became  an  expert ;  and,  to  the  credit  of 
that  Boston  culture  at  which  too  many  dunces  aim  their 
pointless  jests,  his  quality  of  man  of  letters  was  not  al 
lowed  to  bar  his  claims  to  recognition  as  a  first-rate 
official.  In  China,  where  civilization,  or  at  least  the  civil 
service,  is  further  advanced  than  with  us,  Mr.  Durivage 
might  have  confidently  looked  forward  to  becoming  a  man 
darin  of  the  ninth  class,  with  corresponding  emoluments, 
embroideries,  cap,  and  "  little  round  button  on  top. "  Even 
in  England  his  advancement  by  regular  grades  would 
have  been  sure  and  encouraging.  The  names  of  Charles 
Lamb,  author  of  "  Elia,"  Hoole,  the  translator  of  Tasso, 
and  James  Hill,  the  historian  of  British  India,  are  not 
more  honorably  and  pleasantly  identified  with  the  East 
India  House  in  Leadenhall  street,  London,  in  which 


26  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

they  were  clerks,  than  are  those  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
and  Francis  Durivage  with  the  Boston  Custom  House. 
"My  printed  works,"  said  Lamb,  "were  my  recreations 
— my  true  works  may  be  found  on  the  shelves  in  Leaden- 
hall  street,  filling  several  hundred  folios."  Hawthorne 
and  Durivage  might  have  said  something  like  this. 
What  delightful  reminiscences  might  have  been  pre 
served  of  these  two  "  Custom  House  Inspectors  Extra 
ordinary,"  by  any  one  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet 
them  strolling  together  along  Boston  wharves,  or  chat 
ting  on  board  picturesque  looking  craft  that  from  foreign 
ports  brought  to  them  richer  cargoes  by  far,  in  the  shape 
of  associations,  aids  for  reflection,  hints  and  "  motives  " 
for  song,  tale,  or  essay,  than  any  treasures  invoiced  to 
solid  or  stolid  ship-owners.  What  a  joy  and  what  food 
for  memory  to  have  shared  an  interview  between  these 
two  impressionable  and  thoughtful  men  in  the  little  back 
room  at  the  Old  Salt  House,  where  the  genial  "Jim 
Oakes"  was  fond  of  welcoming  them  and  other  wits  and 
notabilities  of  his  day.  Oakes  himself,  like  most  of  his 
chosen  friends,  has  now  passed  away.  How  he  must 
have  been  missed  by  the  birds  that  he  used  to  feed  from 
his  hand  early  in  the  morning  on  Boston  common  !  If 
they  had  sung  his  requiem,  the  burden  of  their  song 
would  have  been  : 

tk  He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small  ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  lovelh  us 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  27 

Until  his  death  Mr.  Oakes  kept  up  an  intimate  cor 
respondence  with  his  friend  Durivage,  after  the  latter 
left  Boston  to  live  in  New  York. 

If,  as  Miss  Martineau  justly  contends,  the  right  of  free 
dom  of  epistolary  speech  were  not  too  sacred  to  be  vio 
lated  by  making  biographical  material  of  the  written  con 
fidences  of  friends,  a  bright  and  interesting  volume  might 
be  compiled  from  the  private  letters  of  Durivage.  He 
was  an  unsurpassed  letter- writer,  and  neither  Cicero  nor 
Montaigne  better  understood  and  practised  than  he  the 
divine  philosophy  of  friendship,  which  somehow  seems  to 
be  growing  obsolete — and  the  more's  the  pity — in  these 
days  of  postal  cards  and  telegrams  and  general  selfish 
ness.  Even  had  he  led  for  thirty  years  in  Paris  the  life  of 
suicidal  isolation  which  is  wretchedly  led  by  far  too  many 
members  of  the  American  colony  here,  Durivage  could 
never  have  become  so  thickly  incrusted  with  selfishness  as 
to  forget  any  one  whom  he  had  once  known  as  a  friend. 
"  Friends  once,  friends  for  life,"  was  his  unchanging  motto. 

Durivage  was  not  only  a  model  correspondent,  but  an 
incomparable  travelling  companion,  as  his  friends  Burn- 
ham  and  Ballou  can  testify.  He  had  long  cherished  the 
idea  of  "  completing  his  education,"  as  he  used  to  say, 
by  foreign  travel.  It  had  cost  him  no  little  self-denial 
to  resist  the  temptations  offered  him  by  several  skippers 
and  owners,  in  the  way  of  free  passages  to  distant  ports 
while  he  was  at  the  Boston  Custom  House.  In  fact,  like 
the  celebrated  essayist,  John  Forster,  and  many  eminent 
savants,  he  had  studied  maps  and  illustrated  books  of 
travel  so  extensively  and  minutely,  and  had  so  finely 


28  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

trained  his  conceptive  faculty,  that  he  knew  more  about 
most  countries  than  many  who  had  visited  them.  In 
imagination  he  had  often  circumnavigated  the  globe. 
None  knew  better,  or  more  highly  appreciated  than  he, 
the  utility  and  the  pleasures  of  foreign  travel,  and  when, 
at  length,  it  became  convenient  for  him  to  make  the 
tours  abroad  which  he  had  planned  and  dreamed  of  long 
beforehand,  his  previous  knowledge  of  history  and  of 
several  modern  languages,  as  well  as  of  geography,  greatly 
facilitated  his  enjoying  and  profiting  by  them.  But  he 
came  home  from  these  tours  abroad  all  the  more  patri 
otic  an  American.  All  that  Europe  can  teach  America 
he  clearly  saw  and  acknowledged,  but  it  did  not  blind 
him  to  all  that  Europe  has  yet  to  learn  from  America. 

Even  what  Jefferson  used  to  call  the  "damp  and 
gloomy  climate  of  Paris"  could  not  prevent  Durivage 
from  surrendering  himself  wholly  to  that  maniacal  pas 
sion  for  what  he  called  the  "  most  fascinating  city  in  the 
world  " — a  passion  which  never  releases  any  one  whom  it 
has  once  bewitched.  That  fever  is  incurable,  and  it 
attacks,  more  or  less,  all  who  have  ever  seen  with  their 
own  eyes  the  towers  of  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  de 
Paris  and  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon.  In  truth,  it  is  not 
surprising  that,  like  almost  every  one  else  who  has  felt, 
as  he  did,  on  arriving  in  Paris,  that  "  his  foot  was  on  his 
native  heath,'7  if  his  name  were  not  McGregor,  or  at  least 
that  he  ought  to  have  been  born  here  and  that  he  was 
bound  to  live  here — he  was  smitten  with  admiration  for 
this  wonderful  city,  and  suffered  always  after  leaving  it 
from  that  nostalgic  de  Paris  which  torments  all  exiles 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  29 

from  it.  Few  born  Parisians,  or  Parisianized  provincials 
and  foreigners,  ever  knew  Paris  better  or  loved  it  more, 
in  spite  of  all  its  faults,  than  Durivage.  It  was  only  in 
his  very  last  letter  to  me  that  I  detected  any  sign  of  his 
relaxing  his  hold  on  the  firm  hope  which  had  long 
promised  that  he  should  yet  return  here  once  more,  if 
only,  as  he  said,  "  to  arrange  with  the  service  of  the 
Pompes  Funebres  for  his  burial  in  Pere  la  Chaise  or 
Montmartre^  or  some  other  Parisian  cemetery.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  none  could  more  fully  enjoy  than  Duri 
vage,  by  way  of  contrast  to  "  the  damp  and  gloomy 
climate"  of  Paris,  the  warmth,  purity,  splendor,  and  ex 
hilaration  of  our  own  glorious  climate.  Nor  was  ever 
any  philanthropist  more  deeply  pained  than  was  he  by 
what  Jefferson  deplored  as  "the  needless  misery  of  man" 
in  the  most  favored  regions  of  Europe.  Moreover, 
Durivage  was  so  dear  a  lover  of  home  itself  that  sheer 
home-sickness  often  unexpectedly  interrupted  his  tours 
abroad,  and  he  arrived  at  last  to  the  conclusion  that  ;'if 
we  could  but  so  divide  ourselves  as  to  stay  at  home  at 
the  same  time,  travelling  would  be  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures,  and  of  the  most  instructive  employments  in 
life." 

Among  his  chief  pleasures  in  travelling  abroad  Duri 
vage  counted  his  visits  to  galleries  of  art,  the  society  of 
artists,  both  European  and  American,  and  the  manifold 
incitements  and  satisfactions  which,  as  himself  an  ama 
teur  artist,  he  derived  from  scenery  and  life  in  Europe. 
At  home,  likewise,  his  artistic  eye  was  ever  open  to  the 
picturesque  in  scenery  and  life.  Many  a  picture  within 


30  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

the  silent  galleries  of  his  mind  might  well  have  been  trans 
ferred  to  canvas.  When  quite  young,  he  had  hesitated 
whether  to  devote  himself  to  art  or  to  literature,  <:  the 
supreme  fine  art."  He  never  entirely  abandoned  his 
study  of  art,  and  he  exhibited  rare  taste  and  considerable 
skill  in  painting  both  landscapes  and  figures.  He  greatly 
estimated  the  potential  value  of  the  highest  kinds  of 
portrait  painting,  as  exemplified  in  certain  immortal 
works  by  Titian,  Velasquez,  Gainsborough,  or  some 
other  master  who  gives  not  only  the  subject  as  he  may 
have  looked  in  common  life,  but  the  whole  substance  of 
his  character,  the  "  form  and  pressure  "  of  his  mind,  so 
far  as  these  inner  features  are  stamped  on  the  outward. 
Such  are  pictures  wherein  "  the  artist  has  divined  that 
one  comprehensive  look,  the  presence  of  which  hardly 
the  most  intimate  friends  could  remember,  but  which 
really  seemed  to  render  the  man's  whole  individuality." 
It  may,  indeed,  be  as  impossible,  in  some  cases,  as 
Southey  says  of  the  portrait  of  Dr.  Daniel  Dove,  to  paint 
the  character  which  constitutes  the  identity  of  a  counte 
nance,  as  to  paint  the  flavor  of  an  apple  or  the  fragrance 
of  the  rose.  But  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  several 
of  the  portraits  from  the  hand  of  Durivage  which  adorn 
the  Custom  Houses  of  Boston  and  New  York — as  for 
instance,  the  portrait  of  General  Lincoln,  the  first  Col 
lector  of  the  Port  of  Boston,  that  of  David  Henshaw, 
and  those  of  Collector  Henry  Smythe,  and  Charles  P. 
Clinch,  brother  to  Mrs.  A.  T.  Stewart,  and,  for  nearly 
forty  years  Deputy  Collector  of  the  Port  of  New  York — 
attain,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  what  Palgrave  rightly 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  31 

defines  to  be  "  the  first,  second,  and  third  essentials  in 
portraiture,  namely,  matterful  grasp  over  human  features 
as  the  embodiment  of  human  character."  Durivage  lost 
no  opportunities  of  showing  that  he  was  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  and  of  the  most  generous  art  critics.  If  he 
ever  seemed  to  be  too  lenient,  it  was  because  he  took 
into  consideration  the  peculiar  difficulties  and  obstacles 
with  which  American  artists  still  have  to  struggle,  and 
the  fact  that,  in  its  present  stage,  American  art  needs 
wise  encouragement  rather  than  carping  criticism.  None 
could  criticise  more  severely  when  he  deemed  it  his  duty 
so  to  do.  But  the  higher  his  own  ideal  of  excellence 
the  more  indulgent  he  was  toward  those  who  made  earn 
est,  even  if  inadequate,  efforts  to  reach  it.  In  his  mis 
cellaneous  writings,  as  in  his  art  criticisms,  it  was  often 
happily  apparent  that,  like  Hazlitt  and  Thackeray,  he 
had  learned  to  handle  not  only  the  pen  but  also  the 
pencil. 

Durivage  had  so  hearty  a  contempt  for  shams  of  all 
sorts,  and  especially  for  the  cant  of  the  professed  phi 
lanthropist,  and  he  was  so  strongly  devoted  to  the  Union 
and  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  that  he  had 
but  little  patience  with  those  dangerous  agitators,  as  he 
deemed  them,  who  endangered  the  Union  by  attacking 
the  Constitution  under  pretext  of  seeking  the  immediate 
abolition  of  negro  slavery.  On  this  subject  his  views 
coincided  more  nearly  with  those  of  Rev.  Dr.  Garnett, 
Rev.  Dr.  Adams,  Mr.  Choate,  and  Mr.  Webster,  and 
other  worthy  men  whose  conscientiousness,  humanity, 
and  patriotism  the  wildest  radicals  could  not  deny,  even 


32  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

when  stigmatizing  them  as  "old  fogies  behind  the  times," 
than  with  those  proclaimed  by  William  Lloyd  Garrison 
and  Theodore  Parker.  In  short,  he  was  an  old  fashioned 
democrat.  But  he  was  a  democrat  in  a  higher  and 
wider  than  a  partisan  sense.  He  was  a  devout  wor 
shipper  of  true  liberty.  He  believed  with  constancy  in 
the  certain  increase  of  popular  interest  and  the  ultimate 
demolition  of  all  injurious  power  held  by  the  few  against 
the  many.  He  believed  in  securing  the  greatest  good 
of  the  greatest  number.  He  did  not  share  the  kind  of 
religious  terror  under  the  impression  of  which  De  Tocque- 
ville  avowed  that  he  wrote  his  famous  book  entitled 
"Democratic  en  Amerique  " — a  terror  inspired  by  the 
sight  of  "  that  irresistible  revolution  which  has  marched 
for  so  many  centuries  through  all  obstacles,  and  is  still 
marching  on,  in  the  midst  of  the  ruins  it  has  made." 
Durivage  took  a  less  gloomy  view  of  this  irresistible 
democratic  resolution.  He  saw,  as  Mr.  W.  E.  Forster, 
in  his  address  as  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Aber 
deen,  November  4,  1876,  remarked,  that  "there  is  no 
mincing  the  matter,  unless  the  world  goes  back,  democ 
racy  must  go  forward.  The  will  of  the  people  must 
more  and  more  prevail.  We  cannot  prevent  numbers 
ruling  ;  we  can  only  persuade  them  to  rule  well."  Duri 
vage  never  lost  the  interest  awakened  in  him  by  the 
revolutionary  movements  in  Europe  in  1848.  Although 
he  regretted  and  abhorred  the  atheism  and  the  tyrannical 
destruction  of  individual  liberty  incorporated  in  Russian 
Nihilism  and  French  Communism  by  certain  leaders  of 
the  revolutionary  movement  of  to-day  in  Europe,  never- 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  33 

theless  he  persisted  in  hoping  that  in  due  time  the  stream 
of  revolution  will  be  purged. of  all  evil  obstructions,  and 
will  flow  quietly  on,  unstained  by  blood,  and  spreading 
fertility  and  happiness  among  the  nations.  He  did  not 
deem  it  Utopian  to  expect  the  establishment,  one  of 
these  days,  of  an  enlightened,  prosperous,  and  powerful 
republican  confederacy,  that  should  be  in  fact,  if  not  in 
name,  the  United  States  of  Europe,  a  worthy  counter 
part  of  the  United  States  of  America.  He  kept  un 
abated  his  early  enthusiasm  for  Garibaldi,  who  was  once 
agreeably  surprised  at  being  greeted  by  Durivage  as 
"  Liberator  of  Rome  and  Italy,"  on  presenting  for  exam 
ination  the  papers  of  the  little  vessel  which  he  com 
manded  on  one  of  his  voyages  to  South  America.  After 
duly  certifying  the  papers,  Durivage,  bare-headed,  es 
corted  the  hero  and  patriot  all  the  way  down  the  long 
flight  of  stairs  leading  from  the  Boston  Custom  House, 
and  bade  him  adieu  with  more  show  of  reverence  than  he 
would  have  manifested  to  any  hereditary  king.  The  as 
tonished  crowd  of  clerks  and  sea-captains  who  witnessed 
the  scene,  did  not  know  at  first  what  to  make  of  this 
deviation  from  the  cool  and  somewhat  formal  demeanor 
of  Durivage  toward  ordinary  visitors  to  the  Custom 
House.  But  Garibaldi  was  no  ordinary  visitor.  Another 
leader  of  the  European  democracy,  Victor  Hugo,  was 
always  held  in  enthusiastic  admiration  by  Durivage.  No 
more  sincere  or  eloquent  tribute  was  received  by  the 
venerable  poet  and  orator  when  he  recently  entered 
upon  his  eightieth  year,  amidst  the  applause  of  Europe 
and  the  world,  than  the  verses  which  Durivage  sent  to 


34  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

him.  If  the  transatlantic  praise  of  contemporaries  be  at 
once  a  foretaste  and  a  pledge  of  the  fame  to  be  conferred 
by  posterity,  the  illustrious  old  man  must  have  been 
deeply  gratified  by  Durivage's  little  poem  "  To  Victor 
Hugo  ;  "  and  as  the  writer  of  it,  alas !  died  before  it 
reached  the  eye  for  which  it  was  destined,  it  chimed  in 
with  the  multitude  of  other  songs  of  honor  on  that  rare 
occasion  like  a  voice  d 'outre  tombeau  as  well  d 'outre  mer. 
As  for  France,  "  his  beloved  France,"  as  Durivage  was 
fond  of  calling  her,  he  never  despaired  of  her.  With 
Sir  Erskine  May,  the  historian  of  "  Democracy  in 
Europe,"  he  extolled  her,  after  all  her  trials,  as  "  yet  great 
and  powerful  and  high,  if  not  the  first  in  the  scale  of 
civilized  nations.  Blessed  with  recuperative  powers 
beyond  those  of  any  other  state,  she  is  rapidly  effacing 
the  scars  of  war  and  revolution  ;  and,  profiting  by  the 
errors  of  the  past,  she  may  yet  found  a  stable  govern 
ment,  enjoying  the  confidence  of  all  classes  and  worthy 
of  her  greatness  and  enlightenment." 

Mr.  Durivage  was  married  on  the  i4th  of  October, 
1833,  to  Miss  Almira  Aldworth,  whose  native  gentleness 
and  refinement,  whose  serenity  and  uniform  self-control 
under  all  changes  of  scene  and  circumstance,  whose  un 
failing  sympathy,  whose 

"Reason  firm,  and  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill," 
in  fine,  whose   whole  stock   of  high  womanly  qualities 
confirmed  her  husband  in  his  theory  that  even  artists  and 
literary   men    are    not     necessarily    excluded   from    the 
paradise  of  married  life,  but  may  hope,  on  the  contrary 


A  Biographical  Sketch.  35 

and  on  right  conditions,  to  enjoy  its  blessings  as  much, 
at  least,  as  other  men.  Sometimes,  indeed,  it  would 
seem  that  none  need  more  or  appreciate  more  fully  than 
artists  and  men  of  letters,  with  their  peculiar  susceptibili 
ties  and  the  incessant  draft  of  their  pursuits  on  their  sup 
ply  of  nervous  force,  the  repose  and  sweet  recuperative 
influences  which  home  alone  can  give.  But  the  happiest 
home  is  not  safe  against  the  intrusion  of  death,  and  Mr. 
Durivage  had  the  misfortune  of  losing  his  beloved  wife  on 
the  6th  of  December,  1869.  His  daughter  Mary  Ritchie, 
who  has  now  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  remembering 
that  all  was  done  that  could  be  done  to  alleviate  her 
father's  sufferings  during  the  last  painful  days  of  his  life, 
was  early  trained  by  him  to  hold  the  pleasant  relation  of 
companion  and  associate,  as  well  as  daughter,  and  even 
in  her  girlhood  he  gladly  counted,  as  he  often  has  told 
me,  on  her  aid  and  encouragement  in  his  favorite  literary 
and  artistic  pursuits.  His  two  sons,  fine  manly  lads,  who 
warranted  his  proudest  hopes  of  their  possible  future, 
joined  the  Federal  army  soon  after  the  outbreak  of  our 
late  Civil  War.  Both  were  on  General  B.  F.  Butler's 
staff.  The  elder  son,  Francis  Alexander,  was  born  April 
14,  1836,  and  died  February  n,  1864.  The  younger, 
Henry  Aldworth,  born  June  22,  1837,  was  drowned  in 
the  Mississippi,  April  23,  1862,  while  commanding  a 
troop  of  cavalry  of  picked  men,  at  the  taking  of  Fort 
Jackson.  After  the  sudden  death  of  his  younger  son,  Mr. 
Durivage  removed  to  New  York,  to  be  near  his  only 
daughter,  who  had  married  an  enterprising  and  prosperous 
merchant  of  that  city.  His  beloved  grandchildren,  Harry 


36  A  BiograpJiical  Sketch. 

and  Alice  Bennett,  were  to  grow  up  and  fill  in  his  affec 
tion  the  aching  void  made  by  the  loss  of  his  wife  and 
sons.  In  1862  he  accepted  in  the  New  York  Custom 
House  a  responsible  position,  which  he  resigned  in  1867  ; 
when  he  went  to  Europe  in  company  with  Captain 
George  P.  Burnham,  visiting  England,  Scotland,  Ireland. 
Fiance,  Germany,  and  Switzerland.  After  the  death  of 
his  wife,  in  1869,  Mr.  Durivage  again  crossed  the  Atlantic, 
visiting  France,  Holland,  Belgium,  and  Prussia,  and  re 
turning  to  the  United  States  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
Franco- Prussian  war.  In  1873-74,  in  company  with  his 
friend,  Mr.  Ballon,  he  visited  France  and  Italy.  He 
again  went  to  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1875,  but  he  re 
turned  home  within  a  few  weeks.  On  his  return  voyage, 
about  eight  days  before  reaching  the  port  of  New  York, 
he  was  stricken  with  paralysis,  which  rendered  him  par 
tially  helpless,  although  leaving  his  mind  perfectly  bright 
and  clear  until  January  31,  1881,  when  he  had  another 
shock,  from  which  he  never  rallied,  dying  after  a  prostra 
tion  of  only  thirty-six  hours,  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of 
his  age. 

Durivage  was  gifted  by  nature  with  a  superb  constitu 
tion,  both  bodily  and  mental.  His  torso  would  have 
been  the  admiration  of  a  great  sculptor.  His  voice  came, 
rich  ar.d  strong,  from  the  depths  of  his  chest.  For  many 
years  he  enjoyed  almost  perfect  health,  being  singularly 
exempt  from  the  ills  to  which  a  sedentary  life  dooms  al 
most  all  whom  it  enchains.  At  length  he  paid  dearly  for 
this  rare  exemption,  although  his  strength  in  struggling 
with  disease  seemed  almost  miraculous.  The  final  agony 


A  Biographical  Sketcli.  37 

was  brief  but  terrible,  and  his  vain  efforts  to  speak  when 
stricken  for  the  last  time  were  very  distressing.  But  as 
during  his  prolonged  illness  the  lessons  of  "  Life  in  a 
Sick-room"  (powerfully  taught  by  Miss  Martineau,  from 
her  own  experience,  in  an  excellent  little  book  with  that 
title)  had  silently  sunk  into  his  character,  gradually  and 
surely  unfolding  its  noblest  traits,  so,  no  sooner  had  his 
spirit  been  released  from  its  earthly  prison  and  taken  its 
Might  "along  the  line  of  limitless  desires,"  than  an  almost 
magical  bodily  transfiguration  followed.  All  traces  of 
years  of  pain,  weariness,  and  anxiety  disappeared  from 
his  countenance.  "  He  seemed  to  be  but  thirty  years 
of  age ;  "  and  the  last  farewell  look  of  the  mourners 
around  him  revealed  in  his  face  a  beauty  and  peace  which 
they  never  remembered  to  have  seen  there  during  his 
life.  "  I  never  saw  him  look  so  young,  handsome,  and  hap 
py,"  said  Mr.  Hanscom,  one  of  his  closest  friends.  The 
light  from  above  that  had  shone  upon  him  while  he  was 
groping  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  now  il 
luminated  his  very  features  in  a  way  symbolical  of  heav 
enly  bliss  in  the  future.  While  confined  to  his  sick-room, 
Durivage  once  wrote,  after  briefly  alluding  to  some  in 
evitable  causes  for  despondency  :  "But  how  much  is  left 
for  which  I  hourly  give  thanks  to  God.  Me  dea  super  est ! 
and  if  I  wish  to  live  a  little  longer  it  is  to  testify  my 
gratitude  to  God  by  doing  some  good  to  some  of  his 
creatures."  He  often  expressed  his  thankfulness  for  the 
unfailing  sympathy  of  all  his  friends,  and  particularly  for 
the  tender  and  prayerful  interest  which  his  cousin  in 
religion,  Sister  Frances,  and  other  pious  Sisters  of  St. 


38  A  Biographical  Sketch. 

Joseph's,  at  Emmetsburg,  Maryland,  manifested  in  his 
temporal  and  spiritual  welfare.  His  heart  was  truly 
Catholic  in  its  charity,  embracing  all  good  and  beautiful 
souls,  of  whatever  religious  creed.  One  of  the  most 
faithful  and  welcome  visitors  to  his  sick-room  was  an 
"Israelite  without  guile,"  a  man,  like  himself,  of  extra 
ordinary  vitality  in  body  and  mind,  who  once  journeyed 
on  foot,  more  than  forty  years  ago,  all  over  Europe,  from 
St.  Petersburg  to  Constantinople,  and  whose  remarkable 
experiences  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  were,  scarcely 
less  than  his  rare  superiority  of  character,  deeply  interest 
ing  to  Durivage. 

I  cannot  more  fitly  close  this  hurried  and  imperfect 
biographical  sketch  of  my  dearest  friend  than  by  tran 
scribing  the  words  of  the  survivor  of  the  two  brothers 
who  wrote  "  Guesses  at  Truth."  Referring  to  the 
lamented  "partner  of  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings," 
Julius  Charles  Hare  said  of  his  brother :  "  He  too  is 
gone.  But  is  he  lost  to  me  ?  O  no  !  He  whose  heart 
was  ever  pouring  forth  a  stream  of  love,  the  purity  and 
iriexhaustibleness  of  which  betokened  its  heavenly  origin, 
as  he  was  ever  striving  to  lift  me  above  myself,  is  still  at 
my  side,  pointing  my  gaze  upward.  Only,  the  love 
which  was  hidden  within  him,  has  now  overflowed  and 
transfigured  his  whole  being ;  and  his  earthly  form  is 
turned  into  that  of  an  angel  of  light." 


POEMS. 


THE     GLENALOON;      OR,     THE      SKIPPER'S 
YARN.* 

ONLY  a  ripple,  and  just  a  puff 

Stirring  the  old  brown  sails, 
Like  as  a  breath  from  a  sick  man's  lips 

Flutters  a  bit,  then  fails. 
After  awhile  the  wind  was  dead, 

And  we  rolled  on  the  oily  sea, 
Like  a  weary  man  in  a  fever  fit 

Moving  uneasily. 

No  headway  on  the  old  barky  now  ! 

She  might  have  been  a  log. 
Ten  leagues  away  the  land  lay  hid 

By  a  strip  of  cold,  gray  fog  : 
And  three  points  off  the  starboard  bow — 

'Tvvas  a  summer  night  in  June — 
Where  the  sky  and  the  water  joined  in  one, 

Heaved  up  the  red,  full  moon. 

*  Founded  on  fact. 


42  The  Glenaloon. 

Bloody  red,  but  silver  soon, 

With  a  path  of  glittering  light 
Stretched  from  the  bark  to  the  oceanls  edge, 

Waving,  and  broad,  and  bright. 
Something  dark  in  the  shining  belt, 

About  a  league  away, 
A  shapeless  bulk,  like  a  ragged  rock, 

On  the  face  of  the  water  lay. 


There  was  no  rock  or  reef  on  the  chart 

Laid  down  as  here  about ; 
We  looked  through  the  night-glass  steadily 

But  we  couldn't  make  it  out. 
I  kept  my  eye  on  the  ugly  thing 

As  I  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 
Then  ordered  the  crew  to  lower  the  gig — 

It  might  be  it  was  a  wreck. 


We  pulled  away  for  the  shapeless  hulk 
Till  it  loomed  against  the  moon, 

And  we  read  on  the  bow  of  a  mastless  brig 
The  name — the  "  Glenaloon." 


The  Glenaloon.  43 

We  hailed,  tho'  never  a  man  was  on  deck, 

And  never  a  voice  replied  ; 
We  shipped  our  oars  as  We  touched  the  wreck, 

And  climbed  the  vessel's  side. 


There  was  a  rubbish  of  splintered  spars — 

Mainmast  and  foremast  gone — 
Shattered  boats  on  the  littered  deck, 

But  of  living  beings — none  ! 
Surely  that  is  a  human  form 

Crouching  upon  the  deck, 
In  an  old  sou'  wester  and  Guernsey  frock  ! 

"  Shipmate  !  what  of  the  wreck  ?  " 


Surly  old  chap  !     I  raised  his  hat — 

Remember,  the  moon  was  full — 
And  started  back,  for  its  white  rays  fell 

On  a  ghastly,  grinning  skull. 
Groping  our  way  through  spars  and  sails, 

Mottled  with  shade  and  light, 
Five  more  skeletons  we  found 

Bleached  to  a  deathly  white. 


44  The  Glenaloon. 

Then  walking  aft — the  deck  was  flush — 

To  the  cabin  I  made  my  way. 
Stretched  on  the  transom  at  full  length 

The  skeleton  captain  lay. 
In  his  bony  hand  a  paper  was  clutched 

(I  read  what  it  said  next  day), 
"  Wrecked — boats  stove  and  food  all  gone — 

We  can  but  wait  and  pray." 


As  we  pulled  from  the  biig  o'er  the  steel-black  sea, 

In  the  light  of  the  pitiless  moon, 
We  read  again  her  fateful  name — 

The  weird  name — "  Glenaloon." 
And  faster  and  faster  into  the  waves 

The  blades  of  our  stout  oars  fell, 
For  the  deck  seemed  swarming  with  shadowy  forms 

Waving  a  wild  farewell. 


In  the  sunny  calm  of  the  following  day 
We  buried  the  fleshless  crew. 

Shrouded  and  shotted,  one  by  one, 
They  sank  through  the  water's  blue 


Autumn  Musings.  45 

And  I  never  look  of  a  summer  night 

On  the  blood-red  disk  of  the  moon, 
But  I  think  of  the  horror  she  once  revealed — 

The  wreck  of  the  "  Glenaloon." 


AUTUMN    MUSINGS. 

ONLY  the  dates  of  birth  and  death, 
In  faded  ink  on  a  faded  leaf, 

Call  up  a  spasm  of  sobbing  breath 

And  loosen  the  fountain  of  bitter  grief. 


The  leaves  are  bright  with  a  thousand  tints 
Dropping  from  autumn's  coronal, 

Bright  as  the  visions  of  vanished  youth — 
Bright  as  my  hopes  before  their  fall. 


Ah  !  then  my  spirit  is  very  sad, 

And  I  bow  to  the  tempest  sweep  of  grief, 
And,  thinking  of  her  I  loved  and  lost, 

I  cry,  u  Oh  God  !  is  there  no  relief?  " 


46  Fifine  of  Normandy. 

Then,  ere  I  lay  the  Book  aside, 
With  a  heart  by  cruel  anguish  torn, 

I  read,  in  the  blaze  of  sudden  light, 

The  sentence,  "  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  !  " 

And  I  know  the  light  is  the  light  of  truth, 
And  the  words  the  words  of  Him  who  trod, 

With  bleeding  feet,  the  paths  of  earth, 

And,  through  sorrow,  paved  the  way  to  God. 

And  a  face  smiles  out  from  the  parting  clouds, 
Bright,  with  a  brighter  day  than  ours  ; 

Round  it  no  tempest  of  autumn  leaves, 

But  the  bloom  of  a  myriad  deathless  flowers. 

October,  1870. 


FIFINE   OF   NORMANDY. 

A  PEASANT  maiden  of  Normandy, 
Heart-whole  and  bright,  with  footstep  free, 
With  sweet  brown  eye  and  clustering  curls 
Exactly  like  one  of  Greuze's  girls. 
If  la  creuse  casee  you  chance  to  have  seen 
You  have  an  idea  of  Josephine. 


Fifine  of  Normandy.  47 

Months  pass  on  and  the  Norman  maid 
Has  gone  to  Paris  to  learn  a  trade. 
Whose  coupe  is  that  sweeping  by  the  lake 
With  an  Englishman  galloping  in  its  wake  ? 
The  blush  has  gone  from  the  pretty  face, 
And  a  layer  of  rouge  has  taken  its  place, 
For  the  woollen  scarf  there's  a  fichu  of  lace, 
And  she  smokes  a  cigar  with  insolent  grace. 
"  Egad  !  "  cries  Milor,  "  she's  going  the  pace  !  " 

The  nets  of  St.  Cloud  have  drawn  a  prize 
Gazed  on  by  horror-stricken  eyes, 
Commented  on  with  bated  breath  : 
For  even  flaneurs  are  awed  by  death. 
So  young  in  years  and  so  passing  fair, 
To  reach  the  extreme  of  fell  despair  ! 
Mute  are  the  lips  that  sang  with  glee, 
But  a  few  months  back,  Ma  Normandie  ! 
Yet  sighs  are  uttered  and  tears  are  shed 
Over  the  form  of  the  unknown  dead. 

There's  a  little  hillock  on  Mont  Parnasse 
With  a  scanty  layer  of  shrivelled  grass  ; 
On  the  little  cross  above  it  is  seen 
Nothing  but  this — Cigit  Fifine. 


43  To  H.   H. 


TO    H.    H.,  A  DEAR   GERMAN    FRIEND. 

HERMANN  !  I  daily  bless  the  hour 
When  first  I  clasped  thy  trusty  hand, 

And  felt  the  friendship  proffered  me 
Immovably  would  stand. 

When,  sorrow  darkening  over  me, 
I  pressed  a  weary  bed  of  pain, 

Thy  sympathetic  words  and  smiles 
Revived  my  hope  again. 

Mem  bruder!     Words  can  ne'er  express 
The  gratitude  that  fills  my  soul, 

That  hours  do  but  tensify, 
As,  hurrying  past,  they  roll. 

I  know  I  share  thy  inmost  thoughts, 

That  all  our  sympathies  are  joined, 
Each  heart-beat  answers  one  of  thine — 
Lett  wohly  mein  lieber  Freund ! 


Love  and  Reason.  49 


LOVE   AND   REASON. 

IN  ages  long  past,  when  the  Paphian  bower 
Was  dear  to  the  graces  and  sacred  to  love, 

With  a  song  like  a  zephyr's,  from  flower  to  flower, 
There  soared  in  its  shadows  a  beautiful  dove. 

And  the  heart  of  young  Cupid  with  rapture  was  stirred, 

By  the  voice  of  Ian  the  caressing  her  bird. 


But  Cupid,  for  constantly  vexing  his  mother, 
Neglecting  the  duties  assigned  to  his  care, 

Committing  offences  one  after  another, 
Was  banished  a  season  from  Paphos  the  fair. 


With  Reason  to  tutor  him  into  his  duty, 

His  plumage  all  clipped  (for  he  strove  to  be  free), 

They  carried  him  far  from  the  bower  of  beauty 
To  where  a  lone  island  arose  from  the  sea. 

Love  wept,  for  no  longer  to  soothe  him  he  heard 

lanthe's  soft  voice  or  the  notes  of  her  bird. 
3 


5o  Scotland. 

One  eve  as  they  gazed  on  the  day  that  was  dying 
In  the  western  pavilion  of  crimson  and  blue, 

A  silver-winged  dove  through  the  sunset  came  flying 
And  bore  from  lanthe  a  kind  billet-doux. 

Both  snatched  at  the  treasure,  but  breathed  not  a  word, 

While  Love  got  the  letter  and  Reason  the  bird. 


SCOTLAND.  ' 

FAIR  Scotland  !  many  days  have  passed 

Since  first  I  viewed  thy  mountains  hoary, 
And,  standing  on  thy  hallowed  soil, 

Reviewed  thy  old  historic  story. 
For  not  alone  art  thou  renowned, 

For  lake  and  mountain,  hill  and  glen — 
All  beauties  dear  to  artist  eye — 

The  mother  thou  of  noblest  men. 

Pre-eminent  in  warlike  deeds, 
As  steel  to  hilt  supremely  true, 

The  laurel  chaplet  they  have  borne 
From  Bannockburn  to  Waterloo. 


Scotland. 

In  Belgic  land,  in  Asian  sands, 
Beneath  old  Egypt's  brazen  sky. 

Wrapped  in  the  bonny  Tartan  plaid, 
The  bones  of  Scotia's  children  lie. 

But  to  a  dearer  theme  than  war, 

The  memory  reverently  turns, 
And  holds  to  light  the  scroll  that  bears 

The  names  of  Wilson,  Scott,  and  Burns. 
The  windings  of  the  silver  Tweed, 

"The  banks  and  braes  of  bonnie  Doon," 
Seen  through  the  halo  of  romance, 

Beneath  the  smiling  skies  of  June. 

Old  Arthur's  Seat,  and  Holyrood, 

Melrose  and  Dryburg's  ruined  fanes, 
The  mountain  gray,  the  dusky  wood, 

Shall  I  behold  thee  once  again  ? 
But  should  an  evil  fate  forbid, 

No  change  or  chance  can  ever  blot, 
Those  pictures  from  my  heart  of  hearts, 

Dear  land  of  Walter  Scott. 


52        In  Memory  of  William  S.  Bartlett. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM  S.  BARTLETT. 
SIT  TERRA  TIBI  LEVIS. 

LIGHT  rest  the  earth  above  the  form 

I  knew  so  well  of  old, 
The  casket  modelled  out  of  clay, 

To  hold  a  heart  of  gold. 

In  the  old  well-remembered  years 

I  never,  never  heard, 
From  the  dear  lips  I  loved  so  well, 

A  single  unkind  word. 

But  I  have  often  seen  him  weep 

O'er  others'  sins  and  woes  ; 
Hence,  sweet  shall  be  his  final  sleep 

And  placid  his  repose. 

His  virtues  in  surviving  hearts 

Shall  live,  a  sacred  trust — 
The  lapse  of  time  can  ne'er  corrode. 

The  treasure  of  the  just. 


In  Memoriam  of  Robert  Duff.  53 

But  to  his  name  a  brighter  fame 

A  deathless  lustre  gives  ; 
We  know  that  he  has  passed  away, 

And,  therefore,  that  he  lives 

With  kindred  spirits,  pure  as  his, 

In  realms  forever  blest, 
Where  cloudless  skies  smile  down  upon 

The  home  of  perfect  rest. 

NEW  YORK,  December  7,  1878. 


IN  MEMORIAM  OF  ROBERT  DUFF. 

AN  IMPROMPTU. 

Too  late  I  learned  that  he  had  passed  away 
To  place  one  flower  upon  his  funeral  pall, 

A  single  leaf,  a  blossom,  or  a  spray, 
To  grace  the  tributary  coronal. 

Hence,  to  the  honor  of  departed  worth, 
This  humble  tribute  of  an  honest  pen, 

To  him  who,  while  a  denizen  of  earth, 

Ranked  with  the  kindliest  and  best  of  men. 


54  In  Memoriam  of  Robert  Duff. 

He  wore  no  mask  ;  the  radiance  of  his  soul 

Illumed  each  feature  of  his  honest  face. 
Kindness  and  chanty,  fidelity, 
x    Whoever  looked  upon  the  man  could  trace. 

To  see  him  was  to  trust  him,  and  to  know 

To  love  him.     Thousands  can  attest 
That  those  who  knew  him  most  loved  him  best. 

Duty  and  Truth,  and  Charity  and  Love 
Were  his  companions  in  the  path  he  trod, 

An  humble  path,  perhaps,  but  one  that  leads 
The  pilgrim's  footsteps  to  the  throne  of  God. 

Few  men  were  like  him,  for  it  is  confessed, 
That  we  have  fallen  upon  an  evil  day, 

When  Gold  allures  and  Self  is  paramount, 
And  those  most  trusted  readiest  obey. 

But  they  who  trusted  him  whose  death  we  mourn 
Felt  their  assurance  founded  on  a  rock. 

Proof  to  temptation's  manifold  assaults — 

The  bad  man's  stratagem  and  the  scoffer's  mock. 


An  Revoir.  55 

So  'tis  a  heart  of  gold,  proven  and  tried, 

Mouldering  to  dust  beneath  the  verdant  sod, 

Trite  is  the  saying,  but  forever  true — 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 


AU  REVOIR. 

HE  stood  in  the  stirrups,  one  hand  on  the  rein  ; 

The  enemy's  bugles  rang  shrill  from  the  plain. 

A  lady  of  rank,  with  a  look  full  of  pain, 

Placed  a  spotless  white  rose  in  the  gauntletted  hand, 

That  was  far  more  familiar  with  pistol  and  brand. 

She  whispered  "Adieu  !  "  but  he  said,  "  Au  revoir  ! 

I  carry  a  charm  to  the  vortex  of  war  ; 

This  token  shall  safety  and  victory  gain — 

You  soon  shall  see  me  and  your  white  rose  again." 

A  thunder  of  hoofs,  and  a  thunder  of  steel, 

Like  an  eagle  the  squadrons  of  Magyars  wheel, 

And  back  from  their  charge    the  fierce  Muscovites 

reel. 

But  out  of  the  earthquake  and  carnage  of  war 
One  blood-sprinkled  charger  brings  backs  a  hussar. 


56  '     My  Little  Sisters. 

He  rode  on  the  spur  to  the  countess's  door, 

And  still  his  right  hand  the  sweet  love-token  bore. 

"  Dear  Hungary's  banner  floats  high  on  the  plain, 

The  ruthless  invaders  are  routed  or  slain  ; 

By  victory  laurelled,  I  greet  you  again." 

But  oh  !  from  his  cold  lips  his  color  had  fled, 

And  the  rose  he  gave  back  to  her  hand  was  now  red. 

The  battle  was  won,  but  her  hero  was  dead. 


MY  LITTLE  SISTERS. 

GAZING  intent  in  memory's  magic  glass, 
I  see  two  smiling  childish  figures  pass. 
Lucy  and  Annie  !  images  most  dear, 
Tho'  lost  to  earthly  sight  for  many  a  year. 
Brief  in  this  life  was  their  allotted  space 
To  glad  our  hearts  with  purity  and  grace. 
God  gave  and  took  them — to  his  angel  host 
Added  the  treasures  that  we  prized  the  most. 
Sinless  and  white,  each  blessed  little  heart 
Hears  the  Divine  permission  to  depart. 
As  I  remember  them,  to  me  'tis  given 
To  picture  their  unshadowed  bliss  in  Heaven. 
Their  eyes  undimmed  by  even  'childish  tears, 


Oh  !  No,  He  Never  Mentions  it !  57 

Perpetual  flowers'  around  their  footsteps  spring, 

Where  birds  of  paradise  are  on  the  wing, 

And  in  the  never-ending  summer  days 

Music  is  one  incessant  hyrnn  of  praise. 

The  vision  passes  to  recur  again, 

With  power  to  banish  earthly  care  and  pain. 

Lucy  and  Annie  !  We  shall  meet  again. 


OH  !  NO,    HE    NEVER   MENTIONS    IT  ! 

OH  !  no,  he  never  mentions  it — 

To  hope  would  be  absurd — 
The  last  of  that  five-dollar  bill 

I  certainly  have  heard. 
I  dun  him,  but  a  joke  he  makes 

Of  what  is  my  regret ; 
And  when  he  wins  a  smile  from  me 

He  thinks  that  I  forget. 

They  tell  me  he  is  happy  now— 

They  say  it  is  "  his  way  ;  " 
And  wish  that  I  may  get  it  when 

I  sometimes  think  he'll  pay. 


58  The  Irish    Volunteers. 

He's  gay  as  any  butterfly, 

Forgetful  of  his  debt, 
But  if  he  stood  within  my  shoes 

He  never  could  forget. 


They  bid  me  go  and  seek  for  change 

(What  bitter  mockery  !) 
If  I  by  thieves  were  overhauled 

They'd  find  no  "  change  "  on  me. 
'Tis  true  that  he  frequents  no  more 

The  "  alley  "  where  we  met, 
When  "  ten  strikes  "  he  was  wont  to  score, 

But  how  can  I  forget  ? 


THE   IRISH   VOLUNTEERS. 

THE  drum  and  trumpet  call  to  arms, 
The  banner  waves  on  high, 

And  with  its  stripes  and  starry  folds 
In  beauty  fills  the  eye. 


The  Irish    Volunteers.  59 

Old  Massachusetts  hears  the  call, 

And  answers  it  with  cheers  ; 
But  who  among  the  first  responds  ? 
'Tis  the  Irish  Volunteers  ! 

Then  hip  !  hip  !  hip  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

For  the  Irish  Volunteers. 

The  lovely  isle  that  gave  them  birth 

They  love,  as  men  should  do  ; 
But  to  the  land  that  welcomed  them 
Brave  sons  they'll  prove  and  true. 
Against  the  levelled  bayonet, 

Where  death  his  form  uprears, 
Who'll  farther  press  or  firmer  charge 
Than  the  Irish  Volunteers  ? 
Then  hip  !  hip  !  hip  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah ! 
For  the  Irish  Volunteers. 

The  spirit  that  in  olden  time    I 

The  hostile  Saxon  quelled, 
And  later,  in  the  old  "  Brigade," 

The  foes  of  France  repelled, 


60  The  Irish    Volunteers. 

Shall  shine  beneath  the  stripes  and  stars 

Whene'er  the  foe  appears, 
And  win  new  glory  for  the  name 
Of  the  Irish  Volunteers. 

Then  hip  !  hip  !  hip  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

For  the  Irish  Volunteers. 

When  pours  the  foe  his  deadly  fire, 

And  forms  his  lengthened  line, 
Then  brighter  for  the  battle-cloud 

The  Shamrock  green  shall  shine. 
When  pours  the  cannon  through  the  ranks 

And  gleams  the  horsemen's  spears, 
Then  Faugh-a-Ballagh  !  clear  the  track 
For  the  Irish  Volunteers. 

Then  hip  !  hip  !  hip  ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah ! 

For  the  Irish  Volunteers. 


The  Lions  Bride.  61 

ONLY   A   WORD. 

SILENT  so  long  !     It  is  not  well ; 

You  said  I  should  hear  from  you,  Mirabelle. 

If  you  only  knew  what  it  is  to  wait, 

Lonely  and  sick  and  desolate  ! 

I  ventured  only  a  word  to  ask 

From  the  friend  who  spares  you  the  writer's  task. 

A  ring  at  the  door !     The  letter  has  come, 

Like  a  fluttering  dove  that  has  found  its  home. 

I  rend  the  envelope  with  feverish  haste, 

By  the  hand  of  a  friend  the  address  is  traced. 

But  the  light  leaf  falls  from  my  hand  like  lead, 

I  asked  for  one  word  :  they  have  sent  it — Dead  ! 

THE   LION'S   BRIDE. 
FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  CHAMISSO.  * 

WITH  myrtle-leaves  crowned,  for  her  bridal  arrayed, 
The  keeper's  fair  daughter,  a  rosy-cheeked  maid, 
Trips  into  the  den  of  the  lion,  who  lies 
At  his  mistress's  feet,  with  delight  in  his  eyes. 

*  This  poem  inspired  Gabriel  Max  to  produce  one  of  his  finest  illus- 
trative  pictures. 


62  The  Lions  Bride. 

The  king  of  the  forest,  once  tameless  and  wild, 
But  tractable  grown  as  an  innocent  child, 
Now  bends  to  the  beauty  who  stands  at  his  side, 
JHer  fair  hand  caressing  his  rough  tawny  hide. 

She  says,  "  In  the  days  of  our  childhood,  gone  by, 
What  romps  have  we  had,  my  old  friend,  thou  and  I  ! 
Yet  would'st  thou  in  frolics,  shake  out  thy  great  mane.- 
Those  merry  old  play-days  will  not  come  again  ; 
For  time  brings  us  changes,  and  care  follows  play ; 
No  child,  but  a  woman,  I  seek  thee  to-day. 

"  Oh,  were  I  a  child  once  again  and  heart  free, 
I'd  willingly  stay,  dear  old  fellow,  with  thee  : 
But  now  I  must  bow  to  a  husband's  command, 
And  follow  his  steps  to  a  far  distant  land. 

"  He  saw  me,  he  liked  me,  and  fancied  me  fair  ; 
I  accepted  his  hand — see  the  wreath  in  my  hair  ! 
But  I  bid  thee  good-bye  in  the  sorest  distress, 
Bear  witness  these  tear-drops  I  cannot  suppress. 

"  Dost  thou  quite  understand  me  ?  Be  quiet,  I  pray  ; 
Don't  wear  such  a  frown,  and  don't  shake  in  that  way. 
See,  my  bridegroom  is  coming  to  fetch  me  :  take  this 
Last  token  of  friendship,  dear  fellow — a  kiss." 


The  Lion's  Bride.  63 

The  tender  lips  touched  him  in  kindness,  and  then 
In  mighty  convulsions  he  shook  the  strong  den. 
The  bride  in  alarm  sought  to  quiet  his  wrath, 
But  her  power  was  gone,  and  he  stood  in  her  path. 
Defiant  and  angry,  resistless  and  bold, 
The  fetterless  king  of  the  forests  of  old. 

Without  there  are  cries  of  distress  and  alarm, 
The  bridegroom  in  agony  shouts,  "  Bring  an  arm  ! 
My  hand  will  not  fail  me — the  monster  shall  die  ! " 
And  wrath  and  resolve  may  be  read  in  his  eye. 
His  poor  trembling  bride  seeks  the  iron-bound  door, 
Too  late !     A  fierce  leap  brings  her  down  to  the  floor, 
A  mass  of  white  garments  bedabbled  with  gore. 

And  when  the  dear  blood  of  the  maiden  was  shed 
Then  low  drooped  .*he  lion's  imperial  head  ; 
Grief-stricken,  he  laid  himself  down  by  the  bride, 
The  musket  shot  sped  to  his  heart  and  he  died. 


64  Song. 


SONG. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  219™  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE   ANCIENT  AND 
HONORABLE  ARTILLERY  COMPANY,  BOSTON,  JUNE  i,  1857. 

I. 

AGAIN  as  the  year  in  its  hurrying  flight 

Restores  us  the  glory  of  verdure  and  flowers, 
Do  we  come  as  of  yore  to  our  festival  bright, 

With  the  garlands  of  joy  to  entwine  the  swift  hours. 
From  our  fathers  of  old 
Came  the  trust  that  we  hold, 
That  links  us  together  in  fetters  of  gold  ; 

Chorus. 

The  pledge  we  renew  to  the  color^they  bore 
And  will  stand  to  our  arms  like  the  heroes  of  yore. 

ii. 

In  the  sunshine  of  peace  o'er  the  sea  and  the  land 
Our  star-bedecked  banner  is  gallantly  streaming ; 

In  voiceless  repose  our  dark  batteries  stand, 

No  stain  dims  the  sheen  of  our  bayonets'  gleaming. 


The  Sword  of  Jackson.  65 

But  the  war-trumpets  breath 
Would  call  from  its  sheath 
Each  sword,  and  give  tongue  to  each  engine  of  death. 

Chorus. 

And  the  nations  aroused,  like  the  heroes  of  yore, 
Would  march  to  the  field  with  the  colors  they  bore. 


THE  SWORD  OF  JACKSON. 

IT  saw  not  the  light  in  a  conqueror's  hand, 

It  waved  o'er  no  realm  by  invasion  made  gory, 
But,  drawn  by  the  hero  to  guard  his  loved  land, 
The  sword  shall  illumine  the  page  of  his  story. 
Its  lightning  was  given 
By  bountiful  Heaven 

To  ward  off  the  bolt  that  our  flag  would  have  riven  ; 
And  bless' d  be  the  sword  of  the  hero  so  brave 
Who  bared  it  in  battle  our  banner  to  save. 

Let  no  speck  of  rust  its  fair  surface  corrode, 

Let  it  blaze  as  when  foes  shrank  in  terror  before  it ; 

As  when  on  the  armorer's  anvil  it  glowed  ; 

Be  it  bright  as  the  soul  of  the  hero  who  bore  it, 


66  The  Sword  of  Jackson. 

When  the  cannon's  dread  peal 

And  the  crashing  of  steel 
Made  hirelings  the  fury  of  freemen  to  feel  ; 
And  bless'd  be  the  sword  of  the  hero  so  brave 
Who  drew  it  in  battle  our  banner  to  save. 

When  peace  was  restored  to  the  country  he  loved, 

The  warrior  returned  to  the  citizen's  station, 
Till  freemen  their  love  and  their  gratitude  proved, 
And  called  him  to  rule  o'er  a  prosperous  nation. 
With  green  laurels  wreathed, 
And  peacefully  sheathed, 
Slept  the  blade  that  sprang  forth  when  the  war-trumpet 

breathed ; 

And  bless'd  was  the  sword  of  the  hero  so  brave 
Who  bared  it  in  battle  his  country  to  save. 

No  more  will  our  summons  awaken  the  sage 

Within  his  loved  hermitage  calmly  reposing, 
Where  peace  and  religion  their  mild  lustrous  rays 
Bestowed  on  life's  evening  and  hallowed  its  closing. 
He  was  summoned  away 
To  the  regions  of  day 

Where  the  just  bathe  in  brightness  forever  and  aye, 
And  the  sword  that  was  drawn  his  country  to  save, 
Shall  guard  the  repose  of  the  faithful  and  brave. 


The    Voice  of  tlie  Sea.  67 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEA. 

IT  whispers  like  lovers  who  whisper  of  bliss 

When  wave  meets  with  wave  in  a  passionate  kiss ; 

It  hisses  with  sibilant, energy,  like 

The  poisonous  reptile  preparing  to  strike  ; 

It  thunders  like  storm-clouds  that  clash  o'er  the  scene 

With  fierce  electricity  streaming  between  ; 

It  bellows  Tike  cannons  whose  death-fires  glow 

When  war  sounds  the  trumpet  of  murder  and  woe ; 

It  chants  a  wild  requiem  in  coraline  caves 

Where  mariners  toss  in  their  weltering  graves  ; 

It  murmurs  as  soft  as  the  tones  of  a  flute, 

When  nightingale,  vanquished,  sits  pensive  and  mute  ; 

But  its  soft  moonlight  music  is  changed  to  a  roar, 

When  the  billows  charge  home  on  the  wild  rocky  shore. 

So  changeful  the  music,  in  fury  or  glee, 

Of  the  gentle  and  beautiful — terrible  sea. 


68  Antoinette. 

ANTOINETTE. 

WARMLY  sheltered  from  wind  and  rain 

In  a  kiosque,  Place  de  la  Madeleine, 

Some  year  ago  in  Paris  I  met 

The  little  flower-girl  Antoinette, 

With  her  soft  gray  eyes  and  her  braids  of  jet, 

Crowning  her  head  like  a  coronet, 

Av  en  ante,  gentille,  metis  pas  coquette. 

When  dandies  ogled  she  turned  away 

And  had  no  smile  for  les  petits  creves. 

She  sat  all  day  in  a  bower  of  bloom, 

Like  a  shrine  pervaded  by  sweet  perfume, 

Incense  from  roses  and  mignonette, 

And  saint-like  seemed  innocent  Antoinette. 

Deftly  her  slender  fingers  wove 

Tokens  of  friendship  and  tokens  of  love, 

Tokens  for  others,  her  heart  was  free, 

And  she  sang  at  her  task — how  joyously  ! 

A  Sister  of  Chanty  passed  one  day, 
And  paused  to  admire  her  floral  display. 
"  What  joy,"  said  the  Sister,  "  if  I  could  bring 
To  my  patients  a  floral  offering  ! 


Antoinette.  69 

But  I  must  not  think  of  it — woe  is  me  ! 

I'm  a  very  poor  Sister  of  Charity 

And  have  no  coin  for  the  florist's  fee." 

Antoinette's  smile  was  joyous  and  gay, 

"  Comme  fa  se  troitve  /"  she  hastened  to  say, 

"  I  am  overstocked  with  flowers  to-day, 

I  cannot  sell — I  must  give  them  away. 

Here's  heliotrope  and  here's  mignonette, 

And  here  are  roses  with  dew-drops  wet, 

A  gem  like  a  tear  in  each  calyx  set." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  Sister,  "  now  take  from  me 

This  little  cross  and  this  rosary — 

The  gift  of  a  friend  ere  she  sank  to  rest ; 

By  our  Holy  Father  the  beads  were  blest, 

When  you  tell  them  o'er,  give  a  thought  to  me 

And  a  prayer  for  poor  Sister  Rosalie." 


It  were  long  to  tell  how  the  enemy  came 
And  circled  the  city  with  steel  and  flame ; 
How  his  batteries  vomited  shot  and  shell, 
How  Paris  struggled  and  starved  and  fell, 
How  fiends  arose  to  the  work  of  hell ! 
And  flowers  there  were  none  to  buy  or  sell. 


7O  Antoinette. 

In  the  Place  Vendome  !  whom  have  we  here 
In  the  jaunty  dress  of  a  vivandiere  ? 
With  a  carbine  swinging  en  bandouliere, 
With  a  scarlet  cap  on  her  black  curls  set  ? 
'Tis  our  little  flower-girl,  Antoinette. 

Weeks  roll  on  and  the  terror  is  past ; 

The  Versailles  troops  have  entered  at  last, 

Through  the  Arch  of  Triumph  they  storm  their  way, 

But  the  rebels  savagely  stand  at  bay. 

Fierce  and  erect  on  a  barricade, 

With  the  fatal  scarlet  banner  displayed, 

Grasping  the  staff,  with  her  white  teeth  set, 

So  the  chief  has  ordered,  stands  Antoinette. 

"  Vive  la  Commune  !  "  burst  from  her  lips, 

And  day  grows  night  in  a  swift  eclipse, 

The  air  is  swept  by  a  storm  of  lead  ; 

And  the  little  vivandiere  falls  dead. 

Through  his  thick  moustache  the  lieutenant  hissed, 

As  he  glanced  on  the  fallen  Communiste, 

"  Take  this  dead  she-devil  away  and  pitch 

Her  carcass  into  the  nearest  ditch  ! " 

But  a  Sister  of  Charity,  robed  in  black, 

With  a  thin  white  hand  waved  the  soldiers  back. 


Thiers.  71 

"  Dare  not  to  touch  her  !  "  she  said ;  "  she's  mine, 

Ecce  signum  !  behold  the  sign  !  " 

And,  pressing  a  kiss  on  the  gray  lips  cold, 

She  lifted  the  beads  and  the  cross  of  gold. 

"  In  the  maddening  whirl  of  an  evil  day 

Her  reason  tottered  and  went  astray.] 

Swept  into  the  vortex  of  civil  strife, 

She  sealed  her  faith  with  her  glad  young  life  ; 

And  over  her  body  shall  prayers  be  said, 

In  spite  of  the  cause  for  which  she  bled." 


THIERS.   : 

A  NATION  bends  in  grief  to-day, 
And  turns  its  reverential  gaze 

From  all  the  gauds  of  earth  away 
To  one  lone  grave  in  Pere  la  Chaise. 

Low  in  the  lap  of  mother  earth 

Full  many  a  proud  and  laurelled  head, 

Renowned  for  genius  or  for  worth, 
Lies  in  that  city  of  the  dead. 


72  Tl tiers. 

But  when  their  fame  has  passed  away, 
In  the  long  lapse  of  gathered  years, 

The  world's  applause  will  eternize 
The  name  of  ADOLPH  THIERS* 

Faithful  among  the  faithless  found, 
He,  in  his  country's  darkest  hour, 

Upraised  her,  bleeding,  from  the  ground, 
And  gave  her  back  her  power. 

Aye,  'twas  his  fortune  and  his  deed 
Her  pristine  greatness  to  restore, 

From  faults  redeemed,  from  fetters  freed, 
Far  nobler  than  before. 

The  baffled  foe,  in  mute  amaze,  * 
Beheld  the  miracles  he  wrought, 

The  bloodless  victories  of  mind, 
Greater  than  battles  fought. 

Soon  will  the  day  arrive  when  France  ] 
Can  all  his  services  repay. 

She  needs  but  follow  where  the  dead] 
Has  marshalled  her  the  way. 


The  Old  Year  and  the  New.  73 

No  mausoleum  consecrate, 

With  costly  marbles  deftly  blent, 
But  the  Republic,  consummate, 

Be  this  his  monument. 


THE  OLD   YEAR   AND  THE   NEW. 

A  COFFIN  passes  down  the  stair, 

A  bride  taps  at  the  gate ; 
A  long  farewell  to  Seventy-seven  ! 

Welcome  to  Seventy-eight ! 


Strew  flowers  upon  the  bridal  path ! 

Strew  flowers  upon  the  bier  ! 
Tears,  salt  tears  for  the  dead  and  gone  ! 

Smiles  for  the  coming  year ! 

For  joy  and  sorrow  ever  blend — 

The  greeting  and  farewell, 
The  tears  of  grief,  the  smiles  of  love, 

The  joy-peal  and  the  knell. 


74  Paris. 

So  chant  the  solemn  requiem, 
And  sing  the  bridal  song  ; 

Tears  to  the  Old  year  now  are  due, 
Smiles  to  the  New  belong. 

Who  comes  like  Maia,  ever  sweet, 
With  hopes  as  bright  and  fair 

As  flowers  beneath  the  fairies'  feet, 
Or  song-birds  in  the  air. 

Smiles  to  the  bridal  feast  be  given  ! 

Tears  to  the  funeral  state  ! 
A  sad  farewell  to  Seventy-seven  ! 

A. cheer  to  Seventy-eight  ! 


PARIS. 

I  OFT  revisit  thee  in  dreams, 
Fair  siren  of  the  Seine  ! 

As  memory's  photographic  glass 
Restores  thy  traits  again. 


Paris.  75 

I  see  thee  as,  when  day  expires, 

In  euthanasia  calm, 
Glows  in  the  sunset's  crimson  fires 

The  rose  of  Notre  Dame. 

And  later  on,  when  mists  arise, 

And  gathering  vapors  gloom, 
Gleams  through  the  dusk  the  golden  dome 

Above  Napoleon's  tomb. 

And  is  this  night  ?  this  ardent  blaze, 

This  universal  glow  ? 
A  million  stars  in  heaven  above, 

Stars  in  the  streets  below  ? 

'Tis  night,  indeed,  but  this  is  France — 

No  time  for  slumber  here, 
Where  music  summons  to  the  dance, 

And  laughter  fills  the  ear. 

The  reckless  reveller  repeats, 

As  the  dizzy  hours  go  by, 
"  Hurrah  !  eat,  quaff  and  laugh  to-night, 

To-morrow  ye  shall  die. 


76  The  Little   White  Mice. 

"  Why  call  up  phantoms  of  affright, 

And  images  of  sorrow  ? 
On  with  the  dance !     Mabille  to-night  ! 

Perhaps  the  Morgue  to-morrow  !  " 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  MICE. 
A  VERSIFIED  FACT. 

'TwAS  night  in  the  silent  city, 
The  sidewalk  covered  with  ice, 

As  a  little  Italian  boy  chanted, 
"  Signori  !  my  pretty  fite  mice !  " 

In  a  box  from  a  string  depending 
His  pets  and  bread-winners  lay, 

On  crumbs  from  his  scant  store  feeding, 
Warm  nestled  in  wool  and  hay. 

Up  staggered  a  well-dressed  rowdy, 

Excited  by  drink  and  play, 
One  kick  sent  the  little  box  spinning, 

And  the  white  mice  scampered  away. 


The  Little   White  Mice.  77 

'Tvvas  a  stroke  of  exquisite  humor, 

A  jest  with  a  flavor  of  art, 
Thus  to  see  the  little  Italian 

Go  off  with  a  broken  heart. 

The  boy  sat  down  on  a  door-step, 
And  his  tears  fell  fast  like  the  rain. 

O  God  !  are  there  none  in  the  city 
To  pity  and  soothe  such  pain  ? 

A  girl  sat  down  beside  him, 

As  she  passed  on  her  weary  way  ; 
She  placed  some  coins  in  his  grimy  palm 

And  wiped  his  tears  away. 

For  she  thought  of  the  little  brother 

With  whom  she  used  to  play, 
Ere  the  spoiler  came  to  the  homestead 

On  a  black  and  weary  day. 

:  O  beautiful,  bountiful  lady  !  " 

The  little  Italian  said, 
;  May  our  lady  her  choicest  blessings 

Upon  and  around  you  shed." 
But  the  young  girl  said  with  a  shudder, 

"  I  wish  that  I  were  dead  ! 


78  Jerry. 

11  Nor  penance  nor  prayer  avail  me, 
And  blessings  come  all  too  late, 
On  me  forever,  forever 
Fast  locked  is  the  golden  gate." 

Nay — for  thou  still  hast  charity, 

In  spite  of  the  soil  of  sin, 
And  the  gate  may  turn  at  that  blessed  word 

And  welcome  the  wanderer  in. 

JERRY. 

His  joyous  neigh,  like  the  clarion's  strain, 
When  we  set  before  him  his  hay  and  grain, 

And  the  rhythmic  beat 

Of  his  flying  feet, 
We  never,  never,  shall  hear  again. 

For  the  good  horse  sleeps 

Where  the  tall  grass  weeps, 
On  the  velvet  edge  of  the  grassy  plain, 
By  the  restless  waves  of  the  billowy  grain, 
And  never  will  answer  to  voice  or  rein. 
By  whip-cord  and  steel  he  was  never  stirred, 
For  he  only  needed  a  whispered  word 
And  a  tightened  rein  to  fly  like  a  bird. 


Jerry.  79 

By  loving  hands  his  neck  was  caressed, 

Hands,  like  his  own  fleet  limbs,  at  rest. 

Through  blinding  snow,  in  the  murkiest  night, 

With  never  a  lamp  in  heaven  alight, 

With  the  angry  river  a  sheet  of  foam, 

Swiftly  and  safely  he  bore  me  home  ; 

And  I  never  resigned  myself  to  sleep 

Till  I  had  rubbed  him  down  and  bedded  him  deep. 

If  I  ever  can  sit  in  the  saddle  again, 

With  foot  in  stirrup  and  hand  on  rein, 

I  shall  look  for  the  like  of  Jerry  in  vain. 

Steed  of  the  desert  or  jennet  of  Spain 

Would  ne'er  for  a  moment  make  me  forget 

My  favorite  horse,  my  children's  pet, 

With  his  soft  brown  eyes  and  coat  of  jet. 

He  would  have  answered  the  trumpet's  peal 
And  charged  on  cannon  and  splintering  steel, 
But  humbler  tasks  did  his  worth  reveal. 
To  mill  and  to  market,  early  and  late  ; 
On  the  brown  field  tracing  furrows  straight, 
Drawing  the  carriage  with  steady  gait- 
Whatever  the  duty  we  had  to  ask 
Willingly  he  performed  the  task. 


8o  A    Vision  of  the  Night. 

When  his  life-work  was  all  complete 

He  was  found  in  the  stable,  dead  on  his  feet 

And  in  spite  of  each  and  every  fool 

Whose  brain  and  heart  are  hardened  by  rule, 

I  have  reached  the  conclusion,  that,  on  the  whole, 

The  horse  we  loved  possessed  a  soul ! 


A  VISION  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

I  DREAMED  I  was  tossed  on  a  heavy  sea 
That  rolled  to  the  black  horizon's  rim, 

The  stars  were  drowned  in  the  murky  clouds, 
And  the  lights  of  Havre  were  far  and  dim. 

No  boat  could  live  in  the  raging  storm 
That  broke  from  a  black  December  sky, 

No  heart  in  the  icy  waves  keep  warm  ,- 
Nothing  was  left  me  but  to  die. 

Sudden  a  light  around  me  shone, 

As  on  dry  land  a  figure  stood, 
And  I  raised  my  wondering  eyes,  to  own 

The  loveliest  type  of  womanhood. 


Charenton.  Si 

Fair  and  grand  was  the  holy  form 

As  any  Murillo's  pencil  traced  ; 
One  white  hand  held  a  crucifix, 

While  spotless  lilies  the  other  graced. 

And  a  voice  of  sweetest  music  said  : 
"  Nothing  fear — do  but  follow  me  ; 

Have  but  faith,  and  the  rock-ribbed  earth 
Is  less  secure  than  the  surging  sea." 

Soon  on  the  shelving  shore  I  stood, 
Behind  the  sea  with  its  yawning  graves, 

And  high  above,  on  a  steadfast  cliff, 

The  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Waves.* 


CHARENTON. 

THE  window  grated !  the  wicket  barred  I 
Ah  !  monsieur,  they  are  cruel  and  hard. 
They  know  I  am  dying  to  get  away, 
For,  voyez  voiis,  'tis  my  wedding-day. 

*At  Havre,  France,  1873. 


82  Charenton. 

I  saw  her,  methinks  it  was  yesterday ; 
On  her  bed  in  her  bridal  dress  she  lay, 
White,  oh,  white  as  the  Jura's  snow 
Ere  the  sun  has  kindled  its  heart  to  a  glow. 

You  see,  monsieur,  I  had  got  my  conge 
In  my  little  tin  box  and  I  hastened  away 
As  only  an  infantry  man  can  stride 
When  he  hastens  to  meet  his  affianced  bride. 

Through  the  valley  and  over  the  hill, 
Past  the  poplars  and  past  the  mill, 
Through  the  orchard  and  through  the  gate, 
Blithe  as  a  bird  that  is  seeking  its  mate. 

There  was  the  cot  with  its  heavy  thatch, 
There  was  the  door  with  its  loosened  latch. 
Softly  I  raised  it — crept  up  the  stair, 
And  entered  the  chamber — my  love  was  there. 

All  alone  in  the  darkened  room, 
With  never  a  sunbeam  to  chase  its  gloom, 
But  it  could  not  shadow  the  lovely  face, 
For  that  would  liven  the  darkest  place. 


Charenton.  83 

Playful  she  ever  was,  and  now, 
Tho'  I  pressed  my  lips  to  her  fair  young  brow, 
And  kissed  her  hair  and  her  lips — 'twas  vain, 
Never  she  kissed  me  back  again. 

"  Sweetheart !     You'll  kiss  me  by  and  by, 
Will  you  not,  dearest?  "     Still  no  reply. 
"  Open,  I  pray  thee,  those  fairest  eyes. 
The  priest  is  waiting,  my  love,  arise  !" 

But  while  I  chided  her  forced  delay 
The  strangest  dream  stole  my  wits  away. 
I  dreamed  that  a  Sister  of  Charity 
Rose  by  the  bed  from  her  bended  knee. 

"  Speak  not  of  marriage  here,"  she  sighed, 
And  gently,  so  gently,  led  me  aside. 
"  Never  will  those  gray-lidded  eyes 

Open  on  yours  in  glad  surprise  ; 

/ 

Ne'er  on  your  cheek  will  you  feel  her  breath — 

For  she  you  sought  is  the  Bride  of  Death. 

Bitter  tears  we  all  have  shed 

As  we  robed  the  maid  for  her  narrow  bed. 

She  is  now  at  rest.     But  oh  !  to  you 

Tears  far  bitterer  still  are  due." 


84  Charcnton. 

That  was  a  tale  for  a  bridegroom  gay  ! 
'Tvvas  enough  to  steal  his  senses  away, 
To  make  a  man  shriek  and  tear 
In  a  frenzied  fashion  his  flesh  and  hair. 

It  was  quite  too  horrid  a  dream  to  last, 
Away  to  the  fiends  the  vision  I  cast  ! 
But,  strange  to  say,  when  my  mind  was  clear 
I  woke  to  find  they  lodged  me  here. 

Speak,  then,  kindly,  and  gently  urge, 
For  they  are  masters  of  bond  and  scourge, 
Darkened  dungeon  and  falling  shower — 
Oh,  how  well  do  they  know  their  power  ! 

Yet  will  they  hear  if  you  plead  with  skill, 
They  only  can  sever  my  bonds  at  will. 
Oh,  let  me  haste  to  Fanchette,  for  she 
In  her  bridal  raiment  is  waiting  for  me. 


To    Victor  Hugo.  85 


TO   VICTOR   HUGO. 

MAJESTIC  minstrel  !  Many  a  year  has  flown 
Since  first  I  heard  thy  lyre's  enchanting  tone, 
What  time,  far  off  in  my  beloved  France, 
Thy  white  plume  led  the  legions  of  Romance, 
Till  o'er  the  ocean,  wafted  clear  and  high, 
"  Victor  and  Victory  !  "  came  the  thrilling  cry. 
And  years  have  flown  since,  on  an  evening  calm, 
I  first  beheld  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame. 
O'er  all  the  scene  thy  magic  spell  was  cast ; 
The  Present  vanished — I  beheld  the  Past. 
The  Cour  de  Miracles  disgorged  its  throng, 
Beggars  and  bravos  trooped  confused  along ; 
The  radiant  Archer  entered  on  the  scene, 
And  Esmeralda  smote  her  tambourine. 
Then  from  on  high  metallic  thunder  fell 
As  Quasimodo  heaved  the  ponderous  bell. 
Since  I  have  noted,  through  the  gathering -years, 
Thy  high  career,  its  triumph  and  its  tears ; 
Marked  thee  in  exile,  seen  thy  fearless  hand, 
On  crime's  low  brow  affix  the  burning  biand. 


86  Burning  the  Letters. 

Now  art  thou  victor  !  Every  tempest  passed, 
Rises  serene  the  steadfast  cliff  at  last. 
If  on  his  summit  rests  a  wreath  of  snow, 
Tisbut  to  hold  the  sunset's  crimson  glow, 
And  o'er  the  world  reflected  radiance  throw. 


BURNING   THE    LETTERS. 

FRAGILE  records  of  the  past, 

Memories  frail  of  joy  and  woe, 
As  ye  to  the  flames  are  cast, 

I  will  scan  ye  as  ye  go. 
Winnowing  the  hoarded  pile  ; 

All  are  not  to  perish  here  ; 
Mixed  with  words  of  fraud  and  guile 

Lines  of  golden  truth  appear. 

Here  is  plighted  friendship's  scroll, 
"  Ever  faithful "  on  the  seal ; 

Time,  that  provest  the  honest  soul, 
Treason  dark  did'st  thou  reveal. 

Gracefully  the  letters  flow, 

•'  Yet  'twas  but  the  serpent's  trail — 

Perish  in  the  fiery  glow ! 
Be  as  ashes  on  the  gale  ! 


Burning  the  Letters.  87 

Black  as  was  the  writer's  heart 
Turns  his  letter  in  the  grate  ; 

But  'tis  gone,  and  thus  depart 
Both  the  record  and  the  hate. 

Here  is  flattery's  polished  phrase- 
Vanity's  emblazoned  line — 

Feed  ye  both  the  fanning  blaze, 
For  another  instant  shine. 


Other  scrawls  to  feed  the  flame  ! 
Bridges  to  a  clouded  past — 

Memories  sad  of  grief  and  shame- 
Perish  all  and  perish  fast ! 
"  Please  destroy,"  four  pages  end, 
Showing  how  a  knave  can  creep, 

Crawl,  deceive,  and  cringe  and  bend, 
This  I  bide  my  time  and  keep. 


From  the  camp  !  the  hand  that  traced 
Those  few  friendly  lines  are  dust ; 

Ne'er  were  war's  wild  legions  graced 
By  leader  worthier  of  trust. 


88  Burning  the  Letters. 

When  the  field  was  almost  won, 
Proudly,  bravely  did'st  thou  fall — 

Thy  farewell  the  pealing  gun 
And  the  flag  thy  funeral  pall. 

Rest  thee  safe  with  treasures  dear, 

Words  of  fond  maternal  love  ; 
I've  no  store  of  gold — but  here 

Gems  I  cherish  far  above 
Glittering  dross  ; — here  shine  serene 

Thoughts  the  coinage  of  the  soul ; 
Still  to  me  as  it  hath  been, 

Light  no  tempest  could  control. 

Friendship,  love,  and  truth  !  ye  shine 

Brighter  as  the  records  pale, 
And  the  eyes  that  scan  each  line 

Through  forced  tears  of  pleasure  fail. 
And  e'en  should  time  obliterate 

Every  letter  of  the  chart, 
These  would  still  escape  his  hate, 

They  are  written  on  my  heart. 


,  Hymn.  89 


HYMN. 

GIVER  of  good  !     We  lowly  bend 
In  humble  reverence  at  thy  shrine  ; 

To  thee  our  grateful  thanks  ascend, 
All  that  we  are  and  have  is  thine. 

Thine  are  the  fruits  and  golden  grain 
That  glow  on  each  autumnal  hill, 

For  thou  hast  willed  the  summer  rain 
And  loosed  the  fertilizing  rill. 

Thine  are  the  works  this  day  combined 
To  feast  the  eye  and  glad  the  heart, 

For  thou  hast  given  the  strength  of  mind 
That  crown  with  triumph  every  art. 

Aid  us  in  all  that  we  essay, 

Our  aspirations  and  our  might, 

Our  guide  through  each  laborious  day, 
Our  sentinel  through  every  night. 


9°  Remember  tJic  Alamo. 


REMEMBER  THE   ALAMO. 

WHEN,  on  the  wide-spread  battle  plain, 
The  horseman's  hand  can  scarce  restrain 
His  tempered  steed  that  spurns  the  rein, 

Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 

Remember  the  Alamo ! 


When  sounds  the  thrilling  bugle  blast, 

And  "Charge.! "  from  rank  to  rank  is  passed, 

Then,  as  your  sabre-strokes  fall  fast, 

Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 

Remember  the  Alamo ! 


Heed  not  the  Spanish  battle-yell  ; 
Let  every  stroke  ye  give  them  tell, 
And  let  them  fall  as  Crockett  fell, 
Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 
Remember  the  Alamo  ! 


Remember  the  Alamo.  91 

For  every  wound  and  every  thrust, 
On  pris'ners  dealt  by  hands  accurst, 
A  Mexican  shall  bite  the  dust, 

Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 

Remember  the  Alamo ! 

A  cannon's  peal  shall  ring  the  knell, 
Each  volley  sound  a  passing  bell, 
Each  cheer  Columbia's  vengeance  tell. 

Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 

Remember  the  Alamo  ! 

For  if,  disdaining  flight,  they  stand, 
And  try  the  issue  hand  to  hand — 
Woe  to  each  Mexican  brigand  ! 

Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 

Remember  the  Alamo  ! 

Then  boot  and  saddle  !  draw  the  sword  ; 
Unfurl  the  banner  bright  and  broad, 
And  as  ye  smite  the  murderous  horde, 

Remember  the  Alamo,  boys, 

Remember  the  Alamo  ! 


92  Moonlight  on  the  Highlands. 


MOONLIGHT   ON   THE    HIGHLANDS. 

How  fair  beneath  the  summer  moon 
The  varied  landscape  meets  the  eye, 

And  tree  and  rock,  and  tower  and  stream 
Calm  in  broad  effulgence  lie  ! 

The  stars  are  smiling  from  the  sky, 
Our  sister  stars  upon  the  deep, 

Where,  swinging  in  the  surgeless  tide, 
The  mariners  their  vigils  keep. 

And  on  the  distant  headlands  dim 
The  beacons  pour  their  steady  ray, 

Lone  watchers  till  the  morning  beams, 
The  sentinels  that  guard  the  bay. 

The  cricket's  chirp  alone  is  heard 
To  break  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

That  wraps  in  sweet  security 
All  that  is  beautiful  and  bright. 


To  Alice.  93 

The  tree  tops,  touched  with  silver,  shine, 

Wet  with  the  lately  fallen  shower, 
While  dark  beneath,  their  leaves  entwine 

In  many  a  dark  and  tangled  bower. 

TO  ALICE. 

WRITTEN  IN  MY  LITTLE  GRAND-DAUGHTER'S  ALBUM. 
How  much  I  love  my  Alice 

No  words  of  mine  can  tell 
Enough  my  little  darling 

Knows  that  I  love  her  well. 
I've  loved  my  little  Alice 

Since  first  her  baby  face 
Smiled  on  me  like  a  blossom 

Through  its  pretty  veil  of  lace. 
And  her  brother,  bending  o'er  her, 

Stooped  down  and  gently  kissed  her, 
And  said  with  triumph  in  his  voice, 

"  I've  got  a  little  sister  !  " 
May  blessings  be  upon  you  both, 

Love  bind  you  to  each  other, 
And  shadows  never  fall  between 

The  sister  and  the  brother. 
April  5,  1878. 


94  The  Flag  on  Sumter. 


THE    FLAG  ON  SUMTER. 

DISPLAY  once  more  our  standard  sheet, 
Be  its  broad  field  "  advanced  on  high," 

And  let  its  constellation  meet 

The  brightest  sunbeam  of  the  sky. 

More  sacred  far  than  when  it  sank 
From  Sumter's  staff  four  years  ago  ; 

The  priceless  blood  has  dyed  its  woof 
And  lent  its  stripes  a  ruddier  glow. 

It  floats  again  to  fall  no  more, 
But  wave  in  triumph  on  forever  ; 

The  sun  of  heaven  may  set  in  clouds, 
But  freedom's  starry  banner — never  ! 

We  swear  it  by  the  dear  remains 

Of  those  who  fought  our  land  to  save, 

The  blood  that  dews  our  battle-plains 
And  hallows  every^soldier's  grave. 


The  Sleep  of  Napoleon.  95 

Millions  of  swords  shall  guard  its  fame, 

In  hands  of  men  who  never  falter  ; 
The  silver  stars,  the  streams  of  flame 

Shall  ever  deck  our  country's  altar. 


THE  SLEEP  OF  NAPOLEON. 

The  best  portrait  of  the  emperor  is  that  which  David  painted  a  few 
hours  before  his  patron's  departure  for  his  final  campaign.  "  When 
now  past  midnight,  instead  of  retiring  to  rest,  the  emperor  sent  for 
David,  to  whom  he  had  promised  to  sit,  and  who  was  waiting  in  an 
apartment  of  the  Tuileries.  '  My  friend,'  said  Napoleon  to  the  artist, 
'  there  are  yet  some  hours  to  four,  when  we  are  finally  to  review  the 
defences  of  the  capital ;  in  the  meantime,  faites  votre  possible  (do 
your  utmost)  while  I  read  these  dispatches,'  but  exhausted  nature 
could  hold  out  no  longer  ;  the  paper  dropped  from  the  nerveless  hand, 
and  Napoleon  sank  to  sleep.  In  this  attitude  the  painter  has  repre 
sented  him." 

I. 

CAN'ST  thou  slumber  while  on  high 
Hangs  the  gathered  thunder-cloud, 

Hiding  all  thy  native  sky 

With  its  black  appalling  shroud  ? 

Hearest^thou  not  the  sound  of  fear, 

Whispering  low  of  tempest  near, 

Mighty  strife  and  ruin  drear, 
Through  thine  empire  proud  ? 


96  The  Sleep  of  Napoleon. 

n. 
Thou  hast  smiled  when  tempests  lowered, 

And  thou  sleepest  calmly  now, 
While  full  many  a  heart  hath  cowered, 

Paling  many  a  lofty  brow. 
Through  thy  heart,  to  danger  steeled, 
Through  thy  hand,  that  well  can  wield 
Battle-blade  on  stricken  field, 

Calm  life's  currents  flow. 

in. 
Calm  as  when  at  Austerlitz 

O'er  the  war-clouds  shone  thy  star, 
Now  obscured  and  bright  by  fits, 

Meteor  of  the  stormy  war, 
While  thy  haughty  eagles  flew 
Lurid  smoke  of  cannon  through, 
And  no  glimpse  of  heavenly  blue 

Glimmered  from  afar. 

IV. 

Slumber,  man  of  Destiny  ! 

Thousands  watch  o'er  thy  repose — 
Gallant  thousands  vowed  to  thee, 

When  thy  banner  rose. 


The  Sleep  of  Napoleon.  97 

On  their  hopes  and  thine  shall  fall, 
Soon,  too  soon,  a  funeral  pall. 
Rallied  by  the  trumpet  call, 
Gather  all  thy  foes. 

v. 
Like  the  ravens  darkly  winging 

To  their  banquets  and  their  prey,    ,. 
Sullen  soaring,  hoarsely  singing, 

When  the  lions  stand  at  bay. 
Can'st  thou  sleep  serene  and  calm, 
While  the  drum  in  rude  alarm, 
Summons  all  thy  foes  to  arm 

For  the  fatal  fray  ? 

VI. 

Scarce  can'st  thou  thy  foemen  number — 

Yet  no  dream-  of  death  and  pain 
Pour  upon  thy  peaceful  slumber 

Visions  of  the  tented  plain. 
All  thy  mighty  heart  is  still— 
Yet  that  heart  can  rouse  at  will, 
When  Destruction's  trumpet  shrill 

Rings  above  the  slain. 
5 


98  Tlie  Sleep  of  Napoleon. 

VII. 

Hero  !  warrior  !  scourge  of  God  ! 

Sleep,  while  yet  the  space  is  given, 
'Ere  the  green  and  fragrant  sod 

By  the  cannon's  wheel  is  riven ; 
'Ere  thy  rowels  urge  the  speed 
Of  thy  fierce  and  frantic  steed 
O'er  the  plain  where  thousands  bleed 

'Neath  the  lurid  heaven. 

VIII. 

Sleep  !  'tis  well  thou  can'st  not  know 

All  the  horror  of  thy  fate, 
All  the  wretchedness  and  woe 
That  upon  thy  future  wait. 
He  who  sits  thy  throne  above, 
In  His  mercy  and  His  love, 
Hides  the  knowledge  that  would  prove 
Madness  to  the  great. 

IX. 

Sleep  !  and  dream  of  laurels  won 
On  old  Europe's  battle-field, 

Of  a  race  in  glory  rim, 
Of  a  lofty  truth  revealed. 


The  Sleep  of  Napoleon.  99 

Thousands  of  the  proud  and  free, 
Slaves  and  bondmen  but  for  thee, 
In  the  trying  hour  will  be 
Thy  defence  and  shield. 

x. 

If  thou  didst  to  empire  stride 

Over  plains  bedewed  in  blood, 
Wooing  glory  as  a  bride, 

That  must  sword  in  hand  be  woo'd, 
Thou  dids't  only  seek  to  stand 
Foremost  of  a  noble  band, 
Liberator  of  a  land 

Once  in  servitude. 

XI. 

Sleep — and  wake  renewed  in  might. 

Once  again  thy  blade  shall  shine, 
Through  the  horrors  of  the  fight, 

All  along  the  blazing  line. 
Though  thou  liest  with  the  slain, 
Though  thou  drag'st  a  captive's  chain, 
Thou  wilt  not  have  lived  in  vain, 

Glory  will  be  thine  ! 
1838. 


100  The  Old  Homestead. 


THE   OLD   HOMESTEAD. 

Nessun  maggior  dolore, 

Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice, 

Nell  miseria. 

—DANTE. 
EVER  when  spring  returns 

In  the  footsteps  of  winter  chill, 
When  the  snow  from  the  woodland  path  retires, 

The  ice  from  the  joyous  rill  ; 
My  thoughts  go  back  to  the  dear  old  home 
That  stands  on  the  breezy  hill. 

Unchanged  to  other  eyes 

That  home  of  my  heart  may  be, 
With  its  verdant  banks  and  orchard  fair, 

But  oh,  the  change  to  me  ! 

For  the  voices,  save  one,  are  mute 

That  filled  it  in  days  of  yore, 
And  the  sound  of  feet  that  I  loved  to  hear 

Is  heard  in  its  halls  ffo  more — 
Afar  from  the  ken  of  mortal  ear 

They  are  tr.eading  the  voiceless  shore. 


The  Old  Homestead.  101 

The  forms  of  the  loved  and  the  lost 

I  never  shall  see  again 
Rise  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 

Visions  of  grief  and  pain. 

My  mother's  stately  form 

Bends  o'er  her  favorite  flowers, 
And  I  love  to  think  her  wandering 

In  amaranthine  bovvers. 

The  gate  is  opened  wide, 

As  it  stood  on  that  winter  day 
When  he,  our  loved  and  beautiful, 

On  his  war-horse  rode  away. 

Far,  far  adown  the  road, 

His  dog  ran  by  his  side, 
And  then  crawled  back  with  drooping  crest, 

Shivered,  and  whined  and  died. 

Such  omens  smite  the  heart, 

With  a  keen  and  sudden  pain  ; 
And  we  felt  that  our  joy  and  pride 

Would  never  return  again. 


IO2     Santa  Anna  to  His  Army  at  Cerro  Gordo. 

Hence  I  never  more  shall  climb 

The  well-remembered  hill, 
Though  the  house  still  crowns  its  verdant  crest 

And  its  flowers  are  springing  still. 

For  the  loved  of  other  days 

Are  beyond  the  ice-cold  river, 
And  the  voices  that  poured  their  joyous  lays, 

Are  silent,  alas  !  forever. 


SANTA   ANNA   TO    HIS   ARMY    AT    CERRO 
GORDO. 

11  MEXICANS  !  hear  the  drum  ! 
Lo  !  the  wretched  Yankees  come  ! 
Now's  the  time  to  give  them  some — 
Arm  ye  for  the  fight ! 

"  For  your  homes  and  senoritas, 
For  your  beans  and  apple-fritters, 
Give  the  foe  a  dose  of  bitters, 

Smite  them  right  and  left ! 


Santa  Anna  to  His  Army  at  Cerro  Gordo.     103 

"I'll  remain,  the  army's  hope, 
In  4jhe  rear,  and  see  you  cope 
With  them  through  my  telescope, 
So  be  firm  and  steady. 

"  So  be  steady,  firm,  and  brave, 
If  you  fail  the  day  to  save 
I'll  entomb  me  in  the  grave- 
One  foot's  already  there." 

Thus  he  spoke— on  rushed  his  men 
Like  lions  from  a  mountain  glen  ; 
But  they  were  sadly  whipped  again— 
The  bloody  work  was  done. 

But  when  red  battle's  eye  was  shut 
Off  on  a  mule  their  general  put, 
And  when  he  should  have  run  and  cut 
He  only  cut  and  ran. 


104  Chez  B  rib  ant. 


CHEZ   BREBANT. 

THE  vicomte  is  wearing  a  brow  of  gloom 

As  he  mounts  the  stairs  to  his  favorite  room. 

"  Breakfast  for  two  !  "  The  garfons  say, 

"  Then  the  pretty  young  lady  is  coming  to-day  ?  " 

But  the  patron  mutters,  **  A.  Dieu  ne  plaise  ! 

I  want  no  clients  from  Pcre  la  Chaise." 

Silver  and  crystal !  a  splendid  show  ! 

And  a  damask  cloth  white  as  driven  snow. 

The  vicomte  sits  down  with  a  ghastly  air — 

His  vis-a-vis  is  an  empty  chair. 

But  he  calls  to  the  garfon,  "  Antoine  !      Vite  ! 

Place  a  chair  for  the  lady's  feet !  " 

"The  lady,  monsieur?  "   (in  a  quavering  tone). 

"  Yes;  when  have  you  known  me  to  breakfast  alone  ? 

Fill  up  her  glass  !      Versez  !  verse*  ! 

You  see  how  white  are  her  cheeks  to-day. 

Sip  it,  my  darling,  'twas  ordered  for  thee  ;" 

He  raises  his  glass,  "^3  toi  Minnie  /" 

The  garfon  shuddered,  for  nothing  is  there 

In  the  lady's  place  but  an  empty  chair. 


Chez  Brrtant.  105 

But  still  with  an  air  of  fierce  unrest 

The  vicomte  addresses  an  unseen  guest. 

"  Leave  us,  Antoine  ;  we  have  much  to  say, 

And  time  is  precious  to  me  to-day." 

When  the  garden  was  gone  he  sprang  up  with  a  start. 

"  Minie  is  dead  of  a  broken  heart. 

Could  I  think  when  she  gave  it  with  generous  joy 

A  woman's  heart  such  a  fragile  toy? 

Her  trim  little  figure  no  longer  I  see  ! 

Would  I  were  lying  with  thee,  Minie  ! 

For  what  is  life  but  a  hell  to  me  ? 

What  splendor  and  wealth  but  misery  ?  " 

A  jet  of  flame  and  a  whirl  of  smoke, 

A  detonation  the  silence  broke. 

The  landlord  enters,  and,  lying  there 

Is  the  dead  vicomte,  with  a  stony  glare 

Rigidly  fixed  on  an  empty  chair. 

//  faut  avertir.  le  commissaire  ! 

Ma  foi !     Chez  Brebant  ces  chases  sont  rares. 
5* 


io6  To  My  Daughter. 

TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 

ON  HER  BIRTHDAY,  JULY  27,  1878. 

SOLE  daughter  of  my  home  and  heart, 

Thy  husband's  and  thy  children's  love 

Will  richly  crown  this  happy  day  ; 

Still,  from  a  father's  hand  receive 

An  unpremeditated  lay. 

From  heart  of  mine  to  heart  of  thine 

It  is  indeed  an  humble  token, 

But  yet  will  whisper  of  a  love 

Unspeakable,  unspoken, 

That  deepens  with  the  flight  of  years — 

Receives  the  baptism  of  tears, 

And  gives  to  life  its  holiest  charm, 

To  pain  and  grief  the  sweetest  balm. 

All  is  not  lost  while  I  enshrine 

Thy  image  in  this  heart  of  mine. 

Fate's   darkest  form  I  well  may  bear 

While  guarded  by  thy  tender  care. 

May  every  blessing  ever  given 

Fall  on  you  like  the  dews  of  heaven, 

And  you  the  happiness  you  give 

In  tenfold  measure  back  receive. 


Song. 


SONG. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  J.  CAUALSO. 

WHO  is  it  that  hither 

Through  yon  valley  trips  ? 
With  a  bottle  in  his  hand 

And  a  smile  on  his  Hps  ? 
With  vines  and  with  ivy 

His  temples  are  crowned  ; 
Fair  youths  and  young  maidens 

Encircle  him  round. 
With  voice  and  with  timbrel, 

His  exploits  they  laud., 
And  merrily  singing 

His  coming  applaud. 
Tis  Bacchus,  the  wine  god .! 

Nay — there  you  are  wrong. 
'Tis  I,  who  have  written 

This  fugitive  song. 


io8  Unfurl  the  Flag. ' 


UNFURL  THE  FLAG. 

i. 
UNFURL  the  flag,  our  country's  flag, 

Upheld  by  gallant  hearts  and  true — 
A  star  for  every  sovereign  State 

Emblazoned  on  its  field  of  blue. 
No  mutilated  banner  ours 

Of  dear-bought  honors  basely  shorn, 
With  half  its  glory-beaming  stars 

In  frenzy  from  the  Union  torn. 

n. 
Lo  !  like  the  rainbow  on  the  storm, 

Its  colors  gild  the  brow  of  night, 
And  proudly  dally  with  the  breeze 

As  when  it  gladdened  first  the  sight. 
By  hero  hands  that  flag  was  raised, 

When  foes  around  were  thickening  fast, 
And  tyrant's  power  o'er  all  the  land 

Its  desolating  shadow  cast. 


Song.  109 

in. 
When  rolled  the  war-clouds  o'er  the  sky, 

And  blazed  the  lightning  fires  of  death, 
That  banner  met  the  patriot's  eye. 

Who  blessed  it  with  his  dying  breath. 
Amid  the  crash  of  ocean  war, 

High  streaming  in  the  sulphury  blast, 
The  flag  waved  o'er  the  reeling  deck, 

Nailed  to  the  CONSTITUTION'S  mast. 

IV. 

Then  be  it  ours  to  fence  from  harm 

The  glorious  flag  baptized  in  flame ; 
To  keep  its  stars  and  stripes  intact — 

The  patriot's  pride,  the  traitor's  shame. 
Still  shall  that  banner  stainless  float 

As  when  in  joy  and  pride  unfurled, 
Millions  of  hearts  its  color-guard, 

The  hope  of  freedom  through  the  world. 


no  Spring. 


SPRING. 

AN  INVITATION. 

THE  spring  has  come — the  lovely  spring 
Come,  dearest,  wander  forth  with  me  ; 

We'll  go  where  blossoms  do  not  hang 
Upon  the  sere  and  leafless  tree. 

We'll  try  to  find  some  hardy  flower, 
Or  some  ambitious  blade  of  grass  ; 

But  wear  your  India-rubbers,  love, 
The  ice  is  slippery  as  glass. 

I've  got  my  gutta-percha  shoes — 

Warm  furs  around  your  shoulders  fling, 
With  cloak,  umbrella,  and  surtout, 

We're  fitly  dressed  to  meet  the  spring. 

We'll  try  and  fancy  it  all  right, 

While  striding  o'er  the  pastures  brown, 

We'll  say  the  snow-flakes  failing  fast 
Are  blossomed  petals  falling  down. 


All.  in 

When  hpme  returning  from  our  walk, 

With  noses  blue  and  spirits  light, 
How  gladly  will  we  hover  o'er 

The  glowing  fire  of  anthracite. 

Then  come,  my  love,  while  the  sidewalk's  clear, 
Soon  will  the  snow  obstruct  the  way  ; 

But  if  this  weather  only  holds 
We'll  go  a-Maying  in  a  sleigh. 

ALL. 

THERE  hangs  a  sabre,  and  there  a  rein, 
With  a  rusty  bit  and  green  curb  chain  ; 
A  pair  of  spurs  on  the  old  gray  wall, 
With  a  mouldy  saddle — well,  that  is  all. 

Come  out  to  the  stable,  it  is  not  far, 
The  moss-grown  door  is  hanging  ajar. 
Look  within,  there's  an  empty  stall, 
Where  once  stood  a  noble  horse  :  that's  all. 

The  good  black  steed  came  riderless  home, 
Flecked  with  blood-drops  as  well  as  foam. 
See  yonder  hillock,  where  dead  leaves  fall, 
The  good  black  horse  pined  to  death  :  that's  all. 


112  The  Cavalry  Charge. 

All  ?     Ah,  God  !  it  is  all  I  can  speak— 
Question  me  not,  I  am  old  and  weak ; 
His  saddle  and  sabre  hang  on  the  wall, 
His  horse  pined  to  death — I  have  told  you  all. 


THE   CAVALRY   CHARGE. 

WITH  bray  of  the  trumpet 

And  roll  of  the  drum, 
And  keen  ring  of  bugle, 

The  cavalry  come. 
Sharp  clank  the  steel  scabbards 

The  bridle-chains  ring, 
And  foam  from  red  nostrils 

The  wild  chargers  fling. 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  o'er  the  greensward 

That  quivers  below, 
Scarce  held  by  the  curb-bit, 

The  fierce  horses  go  ; 
And  the  grim-visaged  colonel, 

With  ear-rending  shout, 
Peals  forth  to  the  squadrons 
The  order— "Trot  out!  " 


The  Cavalry  Charge.  113 

One  hand  on  the  sabre, 

And  one  on  the  rein, 
The  troopers  move  forward 

In  line  on  the  plain, 
And  rings  the  word  "  Gallop  !  " 

The  steel  scabbards  clank, 
And  each  rowel  is  pressed 

To  a  horse's  hot  flank, 
And  swift  is  the  rush 

As  the  wild  torrent's  flow 
When  it  pours  from  the  crag 

On  the  valley  below. 

"  Charge  ! "  thunders  the  leader  ; 

Like  shaft  from  the  bow 
Each  mad  horse  is  hurled 

On  the  wavering  foe. 
A  thousand  bright  sabres 

Are  gleaming  in  air, 
A  thousand  dark  horses 

Are  dashed  on  the  square. 

Resistless  and  reckless 

Of  aught  may  betide, 
Like  demons,  not  mortals, 

The  wild  troopers  ride. 


H4  The  Cavalry  Charge. 

Cut  right !  and  cut  left  !— 
For  the  parry  who  needs  ! 

The  bayonets  shiver 

Like  wind-shattered  reeds. 


Vain,  vain  the  red  volley 

That  bursts  on  the  square 
The  random-shot  bullets 

Are  wasted  in  air. 
Triumphant,  remorseless, 

Unerring  as  death — 
No  sabre  that's  stainless 

Returns  to  its  sheath. 


The  wounds  that  are  dealt 

By  that  murderous  steel 
Will  never  yield  case 

For  the  surgeon  to  heal. 
Hurrah  !  they  are  broken  ! 

Hurrah  !  boys,  they  fly  ! 
None  linger  save  those 

Who  but  linger  to  die. 


Song.  1 1 5 

Rein  up  your  hot  horses, 

And  call  in  your  men — 
The  trumpets  sound  "  Rally 

To  color  !  "  again. 
Some  saddles  are  empty, 

Some  comrades  are  slain, 
And  some  noble  horses 

Lie  stark  on  the  plain, 
But  war's  a  chance  game  boys 

And  weeping  is  vain. 


SONG. 

SUNG  AT   THE  222d  ANNIVERSARY   OF   THE   ANCIENT  AND 

HONORABLE  ARTILLERY  Co.,  JUNE  4,  1860. 

I. 

IN  the  garb  that  was  worn  by  our  fathers  of  yore, 

When  they  sprang  from  the  vales,  from  the  mountains 

descended, 
And  bearing  the  arms  that  they  gallantly  bore, 

When  their  rights  and  their  homes  and  their  lands  they 
defended, 


n6  Song. 

We  gather  to-day, 

In  martial  array, 

In  the  field  to  parade,  at  the  altar  to  pray, 
And  ready  in  peace  and  in  war  to  uphold 
The  Union  proclaimed  by  our  fathers  of  old. 


n. 

Oh  !  dark  was  the  day  when  our  banner  uprose, 

O'er  the  fields  by  the  frenzy  of  battle  made  gory ; 
But  sweet  and  serene  was  its  festival  close, 

As  the  stars  of  our  flags  glittered  forth  in  their  glory. 
Forever  to  be 
On  land  and  on  sea, 

The  beacon  of  nations  who  dare  to  be  free, 
And  who  look  to  the  hearts  and  the  hands  that  uphold 
The  Union  proclaimed  by  our  fathers  of  old. 


in. 

Fair  peace  o'er  the  land  of  our  love  reigns  supreme, 
And  long  may  it  be  e'er  the  cannon's  deep  thunder, 

The  musketry's  flash,  and  bayonet's  gleam, 
The  veil  of  repose  shall  tear  rudely  asunder. 


To  Harry  Bennett.  117 

Yet  war's  rude  appeal 

Our  strength  should  reveal, 

And  call  from  each  scabbard  the  lightning  of  steel, 
And  nerve  every  heart,  every  hand  to  uphold 
The  Union  proclaimed  by  our  fathers  of  old. 

TO    HARRY  BENNETT. 

WRITTEN  IN  MY  GRANDSON'S  ALBUM. 
Fais  ce  que  dois  advlenne  que  pourra. 

LIVE  for  the  right,  whatever  befall ! 

Such  living  is  success, 
Whether  one's  pathway  is  apart, 

Or  crowds  around  it  press, 
Whether  one  meet  the  sneer  of  scorn 

Or  smile  of  tenderness. 
What  if  low  ignorance  and  spite 

Your  best  attempts  revile  ? 
Conscience  will  tell  you  what  is  right, 

What  great,  what  low  and  vile. 
Dear  Harry,  like  a  summer  sky 

Fortune  above  you  bends, 
Youth,  health,  and  strength  are  yours  to-day, 

Kind  parents,  sister,  friends ; 


u8  The  Pretty  Cigar  Girl  of  Paris. 

Then  be  your  course  through  life  the  course 

That  will  delight  us  all ; 
Live  for  the  right,  for  that  alone, 

Whatever  may  befall. 

THE   PRETTY  CIGAR  GIRL   OF   PARIS. 

I  SIT  in  my  study  musing 

And  dreaming  of  things  afar, 
While  the  smoke-wreaths  are  upward  curling 

From  my  fifteen-cent  cigar. 
And  I  think  of  a  weed  of  Paris 

That  costs  but  a  single  sou  ; 
Then,  maid  of  the  Palais  Royal, 

My  heart  travels  backward  to  you. 

The  shop  I  behold  with  its  fixings — 

The  counter,  the  scales,  and  the  till, 
The  caporal  done  up  in  papers — 

And  ask,  are  you  sitting  there  still  ? 
Are  your  brown,  velvet  eyes  soft  as  ever  ? 

Do  they  still  look  a  customer  through  ? 
I  know  that  their  glances  convinced  me 

That  dark  eyes  are  sweeter  than  blue. 


The  Pretty  Cigar  Girl  of  Paris.         119 

Are  those  delicate  hands  just  as  snowy, 

A  type  of  the  whiteness  within, 
As  when  you  extended  your  digits 

And  closed  them  around  on  my  tin  ? 
I  still  hear  your  musical  "  Merci  !  " 

For  coin  that  was  only  your  due — 
Oh  !  the  heart  that  would  trifle  with  many 

Would  never  go  back  upon  you. 

Fair  faces  I've  seen  by  the  dozen, 

Impurity  framed  to  conceal ; 
But  I  felt  that  you  formed  an  exception, 

That  you  never  danced  at  Mabille. 
I'd  make  you  my  model  Madonna, 

If  I'd  a  church  painting  to  do  ; 
For  innocence,  sweetness  and  honor, 

I'd  go  my  whole  pile  upon  you. 

You  sit  in  the  midst  of  Havanas, 

A  saint  in  an  odorous  shrinq, 
*  And  the  dandies  that  buzz  at  your  counter 

Declare  that  your  charms  are  divine. 
Who  knows  but  your  neighbor,  Prince  Plon-Plon, 

May  ply  you  with  soft  billet-doux  ? 
But  I  am  sure  that  the  gas  of  these  ninnies 

Will  make  no  impression  on  you. 


I2O          The  Pretty  Cigar  Girl  of  Paris. 

You've  smiles  for  the  coxcombs  of  fashion, 

And  yet  their  allurements  youtshun  ; 
•    You're  very  bewitching  to  many, 

But  loving  and  truthful  to  one. 
I  saw  him — a  chasseur  d  cheval, 

With  pants  of  the  ruddiest  hue, 
And  a  great  clanking  sword,  that  kept  banging 

The  calves  of  his  legs  black  and  blue. 

One  day  you  will  go  to  the  mairie, 

Then  travel  again  to  the  church, 
Hand  in  hand  with  the  chasseur  d  cheval ', 

Leaving  lovers  by  scores  in  the  lurch. 
For  muffs  that  are  miffed  there's  the  river, 

When  she  whom  I  sing  about  marries, 
The  maid  of  the  bright  Palais  Royal, 

The  pretty  cigar  girl  of  Paris. 


Souvenir  de  Lucerne.  12 1 


SOUVENIR   DE   LUCERNE. 

Liebste,  sollst  mir  heute  sagen  : 

Bist  du  nicht  ein  Traumgebild 
Wie's  in  schwulen  Sommertagen 

Aus  dem  Him  des  Dichters  quillt  ? — HEINE. 


I. 

WHEREVER  my  wandering  footsteps  may  turn 
I'm  sure  to  remember  the  Maid  of  Lucerne — 
The  maiden  I  saw  by  the  banks  of  the  Reuss, 
So  innocent,  pretty,  inviting  and  nice. 
Wherever  my  wandering  footsteps  may  turn, 
I  am  sure  to  remember  the  Maid  of  Lucerne. 

n. 

A  trim  velvet  bodice  imprisoned  her  waist, 
An  opera  ball-room  her  foot  would  have  graced  ; 
Her  kirtle  was  scarlet,  her  stockings  were  blue, 
And  a  dear  little  buckle  appeared  on  each  shoe. 
Wherever  my  wandering  footsteps  may  turn, 
I  am  sure  to  remember  the  Maid  of  Lucerne. 


122  Souvenir  de  Lucerne. 

m. 

No  chignon  she  wore,  but  the  braids  of  her  hair  • 
Had  a  very  enticing  and  suivez-moi  air. 
Her  locks  were  so  brown  and  her  eyes  were  so  blue, 
That   one   snared   the    heart    that  the   others  pierced 

through. 

Commend  me  to  orbs  that  can  heal  if  they  burn, 
And  such  were  the  eyes  of  the  Maid  of  Lucerne. 

IV. 

She  was  carrying  bricks  from  her  boat  to  the  shore, 

By  way  of  a  rest  from  employing  the  oar  ; 

And  I  thought  as  I  saw  her,  a  mortal  could  stand 

A  thousand  of  bricks  from  so  dainty  a  hand. 

Wherever  my  wandering  footsteps  may  turn, 

I  shall  always  remember  the  Maid  of  Lucerne. 

v. 

In  a  beer-hall  at  night  the  maiden  I  met, 
A  chopin  of  lager  before  her  was  set ; 
But  ere  on  the  counter  her  kreutzers  could  clink, 
I  Summoned  the  kellner  and  paid  for  the  drink, 
Receiving  sweet  gratitude's  glance  in  return 
From  the  azure-blue  eyes  of  the  Maid  of  Lucerne. 


The  Rhyme  of  the  Rhine.  123 


THE   RHYME   OF   THE  RHINE. 

"  Wo  ich  bin, wo  ich  gehe,  mein  Hertz  ist  am  Rhein !  "— W.  MULLER. 

I. 

A  DREAM  of  enchantment,  too  quickly  'twas  past, 
Too  lovely  its  features,  too  charming  to  last ; 
Field,  forest,  and  mountain,  church,  castle,  and  shrine, 
Appearing  and  fleeting — farewell  to  the  Rhine. 

ii. 

What  treasures  of  beauty  from  Mainz  to  Cologne  ! 
Oh  !  fair  is  the  Danube,  and  bright  is  the  Rhone, 
And  lordly  the  Hudson  ;  but  thou  dost  combine 
All  beauties  and  glories,  magnificent  Rhine  ! 

in. 

The  quaint  town  of  Bingen  was  seen  through  my  tears, 
For  I  thought  of  that  soldier  who  died  in  Algiers. 
Johannisberg's  vines  promised  plenty  of  drink, 
But  only  to  those  who  had  plenty  of  chink. 


124  The  Rhyme  of  the  Rhine. 

The  mortal  sans  argent  must  turn  with  a  tear 
From  golden-head  Schloss  to  the  solace  of  beer. 
In  Metternich's  diggings  they've  put  up  a  sign  : 
"If  you  haven't  the  rhino,  keep  clear  of  the  Rhine." 

IV. 

The  old  feudal  castles,  grim,  shattered,  and  brown, 
Like  rock-rooted  eyries  look  sullenly  down, 
Through  vistas  of  forest  and  vistas  of  vine, 
On  the  glittering  sheen  of  the  beautiful  Rhine. 

v. 

The  lords  of  those  castles  are  ashes  and  dust, 
But  sleep  not  exactly  the  sleep  of  the  just. 
They  watched  for  the  merchants,  and  just  in  the  nick 
Of  time  they  came  down  like  a  thousand  of  brick  ; 
And  the  tradesman  who  managed  to  save  his  own  pelt, 
13y  half  of  his  cargo  and  half  of  his  gelt, 
With  candles  and  flowers  bestowed  on  a  shrine 
Gave  thanks  for  achieving  his  trip  down  the  Rhine. 

VI. 

No  mail- encased  noble  now  troubles  your  purse, 
But  landlords  and  valets  de  place  are  much  worse. 


Apropos  des  Bottes.  125 

On  leaving  the  former  your  pittance  was  small, 
On  leaving  the  latter  you've  nothing  at  all. 
They'll  hold  you  to  ransom,  demanding  a  line 
On  your  banker  at  Paris,  these  rogues  of  the  Rhine. 

VII. 

But  the  glories  the  banks  of  the  river  enfold 
Are  worth  all  your  discounts  of  silver  and  gold. 
The  dross  that  you  leave  to  the  harpies  behind 
Is  naught  to  the  gems  that  are  stored  in  your  mind  : 
And  to  rail  at  the  rubs  that  you  meet  on  your  route 
Is  something  so  flat  that  it's  wholly  played  out ; 
And  tears  fill  your  eyes,  or  at  least  they  fill  mine, 

When   you   look   back   and   falter,     u  Farewell  to   the 
Rhine." 


APROPOS     DES   BOTTES. 

i. 

A  PAIR  of  boots"  were  made  for  me, 
I  vow  I  thought  them  quite  genteel ; 

But  one  of  them,  I  grieve  to  say, 
Produced  abrasions  on  my  heel. 


126  Apropos  des  Bottes. 

If  he  who  made  them  were  at  hand 
The  toe  of  one  he'd  surely  feel — 

How  could  he  make  the  counter  so  ? 
'Twas  certain  to  abrade  my  heel. 

If  that  vile  snob  were  only  here, 

I'd  kick  him  till  I  made  him  squeal ; 

I'd  kick  him  till  he  couldn't  sit, 
And  all  for  torturing  my  heel. 

In  mythic  legends  there  is  one 

Whom  Frenchmen  will  miscall  Achille  ; 

I  take  no  pride  that  I,  like  him, 
Am  sorely  wounded  in  the  heel. 

When  I  attempt  to  walk  the  street 
My  limp  doth  secret  pangs  reveal, 

And  every  boot-black  can  perceive, 
Something's  the  matter  with  my  heel. 

Into  my  old,  discarded  boot 

My  dexter  foot  slipped  like  an  eel — 

Now  iron  hooks  are  requisite 

To  drag  the  new  one  on  the  heel. 


Apropos  des  Bottes.  127 

And  then  I  scarcely  walk  a  step 

Before  the  skin  begins  to  peel ; 
I  faintly  lean  against  a  post 

To  ease  the  anguish  of  my  heel. 

In  coat  of  blue  and  buttons  bright, 
Comes  one  who  guards  the  city's  weal, 

And  says,  "  My  Christian  friend,  you're  tight," 
The  tightness  all  is  in  my  heel. 

His  baton  to  the  station-house 

He  points,  and  says  to  that  Bastille 
I  must  directly  walk  with  him. 

Walk  ?  with  that  wound  upon  my  heel  ? 

On  either  hand  an  officer — 

I  vow  't  was  vastly  ungenteel — 
I'm  roughly  shouldered  through  the  crowd — 

All  caused  by  that  confounded  heel. 

The  crowd  supposes  I've  been  foiled 

In  some  insane  intent  to  steal, 
And  rotten  eggs  assail  my  head — 

My  head  must  suffer  for  the  heel. 


128  Salut  b  la  France. 

His  honor  gently  says,  "Too  thin  !" 
When  I  my  hidden  woes  reveal, 

And  bids  me  go  and  sin  no  more — 
He  don't  believe  about  my  heel.  9 

O  maker  of  that  cruel  boot  ! 

The  cat,  the  pillory,  the  wheel 
Were  punishments  too  mild  for  you 

Who  tortured  thus  both  head  and  heel. 

Oh  !  were  we  in  the  days  of  yore, 
When  every  gentleman  wore  steel, 

Your  carcass  through  and  through  I'd  bore 
To  pay  for  that  abraded  heel. 


SALUT  A  LA  FRANCE. 

READ  AT  THE  AMERICAN  DINNER  AT  THE  GRAND  HOTEL,  PARIS, 
JULY  4,  1872. 

WHILE  to  your  banner  gemmed  with  stars 
Our  eyes  are  turned  with  rapture's  glance, 

We  hail  alike  with  beating  hearts,- 
The  friendly  flag  of  France. 


Saint  a  la  France.  129 

And  till  those  hearts  have  ceased  to  throb, 

'Till  freedom's  latest  sun  has  set, 
The  name  of  Washington  will  blend 

With  that  of  Lafayette. 

Aye,  long  as  history  holds  a  scroll. 

Or  place  for  one  recorded  line, 
For  scenes  of  triumph  and  of  toil, 

Yorktown  and  Brandywine. 

And  where,  when  we  have  left  our  land 

A  thousand  weary  leagues  away, 
Could  we  more  fitly  congregate 

To  celebrate  this  day 

Than  here,  where  friendly  hearts  and  hands 

A  welcome  give  where'er  we  turn, 
Where  souls  with  kindred  hopes  are  fired, 

With  kindred  raptures  burn  ? 

Breathe  but  the  word  "  American," 

The  hearts  of  Paris  wide  expand  ; 
And  he  of  us  who  loved  not  France 

Wouid  spurn  his  native  land, 


130  Salut  a  la  France. 

Turn  from  the  memory  of  his  sires, 

Forget  the  gratitude  they  bore 
To  those  who  battled  in  their  ranks 

In  the  stern  days  of  yore. 

To  know  the  sons  of  this  fair  land, 

To  read  their  story  is  to  trace 
The  deeds  of  an  heroic  age, 

Of  a  chivalric  race. 

Their  path  through  sunshine  and  through  shade 
Has  waked  the  wonder  of  the  world  ; 

Whether  they  drew  the  hero's  sword, 
Or  war's  torn  banner  furled. 

Science  and  art  their  victories 

Have  blazoned  on  their  nation's  shield  ; 

The  pen,  the  pencil,  and  the  blade 
'Tis  theirs  alike  to  wield. 

And  still,  upon  the  height  of  fame 
Shall  we  behold  their  proud  advance, 

Like  eagles  soaring  to  the  sun, 
Their  salut  a  la  France  ! 


On  the  Sea  Beach.  .  I31 


ON  THE  SEA  BEACH. 

HOARSE  and  exulting, 

Raving  and  swirling, 
Boiling  and  seething, 

Foaming  and  whirling ; 
Raking  the  pebbles, 

Harsh  and  discordant, 
Gnawing  the  boulders, 

Venomous,  mordant ; 
Gorged  to  repletion, 

Craving  for  more, 
Back  rolls  the  bellowing 
Tide  from  the  shore. 

Yet  was  its  task- work 

Faithfully  done  ; 
Yet  were  its  laurels 

Loyally  won. 
Bedded  in  seaweed, 

Cradled  in  sand, 
Waifs  of  the  ocean 

Claimed  by  the  land  ; 


132  On  the  Sea  Beach. 

Fairer  than  marble, 
Colder  than  clay, 

Dewed  by  baptismal 
Drops  of  the  spray. 


Just  where  the  rollers 

Cease  to  invade, 
There  were  two  children, 

Tenderly  laid. 
Two  little  hands 

Linked  in  each  other, 
Two  little  angels, 

Sister  and  brother. 
Lilies  in  purity, 

Cherubs  in  form, 
Waifs  from  the  death-wreck, 

Trophies  of  storm. 


Father  and  mother, 
Say,  where  are  they  ? 

Saved  from  the  surges 
Thirsting  for  prey, 


The  Crew  less  Skip.  133 

Saved  to  behold 

What  the  ocean  has  landed, 
Saved  to  deplore 

What  the  billows  have  stranded, 
Saved  to  be  hitherward 

Wandering  led  ? 
God,  in  his  mercy, 

Grant  they  are  dead. 


THE  CREWLESS  SHIP. 

The  following  lines  were  founded  on  a  singular  circumstance  which 
occurred  on  the  shores  of  Rhode  Island  in  the  year  1760.  The  facts 
are  related  without  coloring  in  the  poem.  The  mystery  has  never 
been  cleared  up. 

TWAS  a  fine  autumnal  morning, 
And  the  mist  had  cleared  away, 

When  a  ship  with  all  her  canvas  spread 
Neared  Narragansett  Bay. 

With  all  her  canvas  spread — 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  I  ween 
To  mark  her  in  the  freshening  blast 

Low  to  the  wave  careen. 


134  The  Crewless  Ship. 

The  foam  she  flung  right  gallantly, 
Like  flower-wreaths,  far  and  free, 

And  her  topsail  yards  by  the  mast  inclined- 
They  almost  kissed  the  sea. 

With  a  sound  like  rushing  pinions 
She  swiftly  ploughed  her  way, 

A  gallant,  glorious  messenger 
For  Narragansett  Bay  ! 

The  Islanders  on  Newport  beach 

Her  graceful  form  descry, 
And  scan  her  fluttering  signal  flag 

Like  a  sea-bird  in  the  sky. 

"'Tis  the  bark  from  merrie  England  ! " 

So  rang  the  cheering  cry ; 
'Twas  joyous  news  to  many  a  heart 

That  she  was  drawing  nigh. 

The  wife,  so  long  a  watcher 
For  the  partner  of  her  heart, 

The  fond  and  plighted  maiden 
Played  well  the  woman's  part. 


The  Crew  less  SJiip.  135 

With  tearful  eyes,  o'ershaded 

By  trembling  hands,  they  mark 
The  fast  enlarging  vision; 

The  tall  and  shapely  bark  ! 

But  lo  !  a  cry  of  terror 

From  the  crowd  upon  the  shore  ! 
The  ship  is  fast  approaching 

Where  the  angry  surges  roar. 

To  right  and  left  the  sunken  rocks 

Resist  the  billows'  force — 
Why  sternly  holds  the  vessel  on 

The  same  unvaried  course  ? 

Why  heeds  she  not  the  warning 

That  rises  from  the  beach 
When  shelving  rocks  are  thundering* 

Far  as  the  eye  can  reach  ? 

Right  onward,  like  a  phantom  ship 

Or  the  mirage  of  the  sea — 
Rising  and  plunging  heavily 

Due  shoreward  rushes  she. 


136  The  Crewless  Ship. 

Where  sleeps  the  hand  whose  duty 

It  is  to  grasp  the  helm  ? 
If  she  holds  on  her  doom  is  sealed — 

The  waves  her  crew  o'erwhelm. 

Nearer  and  nearer  yet  ! 

The  bravest  hearts  on  land 
Throb  hard  with  horror  at  the  sight  ! 

The  vessel  strikes  the  strand  ! 

They  board  her — on  her  slippery  deck 

No  human  form  is  found  ; 
They  call  aloud — no  human  voice 

Gives  answer  to  the  sound. 

Above,  below  they  search  in  vain — 

No  trace  of  life  is  there — 
And  the  loved  who  looked  for  loved  ones  home 

Are  destined  to  despair. 

And  whether,  in  a  nameless  fear 

Of  danger  and  of  wreck, 
They  quitted  for  an  open  boat 

The  fastness  of  the  deck, 


The  Crewless  Skip.  137 

Or  murder  red  and  mutiny 

Were  busy  with  the  knife, 
And  gallant  hearts  had  throbbed  their  last 

In  treason's  deadly  strife, 

We  may  not  hear  or  know  until 

The  sea  gives  up  its  dead, 
And  earth's  vast  crew  shall  summoned  rise 

Before  their  Captain  dread. 

But  still  the  everlasting  sea 

Rolls  onward  as  before, 
And  still  upon  the  shining  sand 

The  curving  surges  roar. 

And  still  the  Island  mariners 

To  list'ners  love  to  teach 
The  story  of  the  "  Crewless  Ship  " 

Once  wrecked  on  Newport  beach. 


138  The  Lancer  of  the  Guard. 


THE  LANCER  OF  THE  GUARD. 

I  SIT  at  the  close  of  an  autumn  day 
Where  a  white  fountain  throws  up  its  spray, 
Half  screened  by  many  a  red-brown  tree 
Lies  the  ruined  front  of  the  Tuileries, 
And,  mistily  sketched  on  the  sky's  blue  field, 
Rise  the  open  towers  of  Sainte-Clotilde, 
With  a  gleam  of  gold  from  the  massive  dome 
That  marks  the  site  of  the  soldier's  home, 
Where  the  greatest  of  captains  lies  at  rest 
In  the  spot  of  earth  that  he  loved  the  best  ; 
And  far  away,  up  the  avenue, 
Distant  and  cloud-like  in  airy  hue, 
The  Arch  that  tells  of  triumphs  won 
Sweeps  like  a  frame  round  the  setting  sun. 
All  about  me  the  children  play 
As  if  life  were  only  a  holiday. 

But  who  comes  halting  by  on  a  crutch  ? 
A  wreck  of  war — I  thought  as  much. 
Carefully  steps  he  over  the  ground, 
Then  halts  and  wistfully  looks  around, 


The  Lancer  of  the  Guard.  139 

With  a  weary  air,  as  one  would  do 
Too  early  or  late  for  a  rendezvous. 
Touched  by  his  sad  and  lonely  air, 
I  offered  the  haggard  man  a  chair. 
"  Thanks,  monsieur,"  and  he  takes  the  seat, 
'*  Young  as  I  am,  repose  is  sweet. 
Once  1  could  join  in  the  merry  dance — 
Mais  rf  import  e  f     I  lost  my  leg  for  France. 
For  a  limb  the  less  need  a  soldier  care  ?t 
C'est  a  la  guerre,  comme  a  la  guerre  ! 
Sometimes  I  think  with  a  passing  pain, 
I  never  must  sit  in  saddle  again, 
Nor  draw  a  sabre  or  level  a  lance 
When  the  trumpet  rallies  the  sons  of  France. 

"  We  were  many  in  days  of  yore, 

With  hearts  as  light  as  the  plumes  we  wore ; 

Even  the  Emperor's  dull,  cold  eye 

Lighted  up  as  we  thundered  by, 

A  scurrying  mass  of  azure  and  steel, 

With  shouts  that  rang  out  like  the  musket's  peal. 

"  We  were  many  in  days  of  yore, 
Comrades  true  to  the  warm  heart's  core, 


140  The  Lancer  of  the  Guard. 

Friends  in  revel  and  friends  in  fray, 

Life  to  us  was  a  carnival  day. 

And  I  might  have  been  a  mauvais  sujet 

But  one  fine  day  it  was  here  I  met 

The  girl  of  my  heart — my  Antoinette  ; 

Then  I  could  walk,  and  dance  and  ride, 

And  light  was  my  step  at  my  darling's  side. 

"  But  war  and  love  are  enemies  sworn, 

Away  from  the  girl  of  my  heart  I  was  torn — 

No  time  for  wooing  when  sabres  shine  ! 

War  !  war  !  for  the  German  had  crossed  the  Rhine. 

"  We  were  many  who  rode  to  the  front 

To  take  our  share  of  the  battle's  brunt, 

We  were  few  who  came  home  again 

When  the  blood  of  France  had  been  poured  in  vain. 

"  Love-making  adieu  !  for  Beauty's  mate 
Is  a  man  complete — not  a  thing  whom  Fate 
Has  marked  for  life,  and  so  carved  and  torn, 
That  better  he  never  had  been  bom." 

He  rises,  he  smiles,  and  takes  my  hand, — 
"  Spare  me  your  pity,  you  see  I  can  stand. 


The  Fairy  Bot tines.  141 

Merci,  monsieur  ;  but  I  must  not  stay, 
She  I  expected  is  coming  this  way, 
For  the  crippled  lancer  there's  joy  in  life, 
Since  Antoinette  is  his  loving  wife  I " 


THE   FAIRY   BOTTINES. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SPLENDIDE  HOTEL. 

A  DEAR  little  pair  of  gaiters — 
The  instep  had  such  a  swell  ! — 

Were  placed  at  the  door  just  opposite 
To  mine  in  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

For  the  feet  of  a  Cinderella, 

The  feet  of  a  fairy  belle, 
Was  surely  designed  that  chaussure 

I  saw  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

When  the  hour  of  nine  was  sounded 
From  the  tongue  of  clock  and  bell, 

The  hand  of  an  angel  dropped  those  boots 
In  the  hall  of  the  Splendide  Hotel. 


142  The  Fairy  Bottines. 

The  hand,  like  the  foot,  was  mignonne, 
And  the  beauty  what  tongue  could  tell 

Of  the  doubtless  divine  incognita 
Who  lived  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

At  the  hour  of  ten  in  the  morning 

Abruptly  vanished  the  spell, 
And  the  little  bottines  disappeared 

From  the  hall  of  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

What  was  the  name  of  the  fair  one  ? 

Was  it  Marie  or  Annabelle  ? 
I  would  not  enquire  of  Madeleine, 

Who  waits  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

Those  bottines  looked  very  lonely — 

If  I'd  been  a  younger  swell, 
I  should  surely  have  sought  the  acquaintance 

Of  the  sylph  of  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

But  scattered  were  all  my  illusions 
By  a  sight  that  may  well  dispel 

The  wildest  dream  of  a  poet 

Who  lived  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 


The  Fairy  Bot tines.  143 

By  the  side  of  the  bottines  one  morning — 
What  tongue  can  the  horror  tell  ? — 

Stood  a  pair  of  the  hugest-  cowhide  boots 
Ever  seen  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

The  owner  of  boots  so  atrocious 

Had  braved  the  Atlantic  swell, 
And  arrived  in  the  month  of  December 

Safe  and  sound  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

The  garcon  told  me  his  legend, 

While  blacking  those  boots  pell-mell — 

They  reached  from  the  second  story 
To  the  third  of  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

He  said  that  the  wretch  was  married, 

That  he  owned  a  petroleum  well, 
And  his  bride  had  preceded  him  thither, 

And  stopped  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

* 
The  garcon  and  I  united 

In  wishing  the  monster — well, 
At  a  place  located  much  farther 

Away  than  the  Splendide  Hotel. 


144  The  Fairy  Bot tines. 

I  had  but  one  glance  at  the  being, 
As  he  stood  on  the  street  next  day, 

His  heels  in  the  Place  de  1'  Opera, 
His  toes  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

And  she  was  smiling  beside  him 

Who  had  made  my  dream  a  sell, 
Who  had  bartered  her  peerless  charms  for  "  ile," 

And  lived  at  the  Splendide  Hotel. 

I  entered  the  smoking-room  wildly, 

And  savagely  rang  the  bell, 
And  paid  my  bill  and  started  for  Rome, 

Away  from  the  Splendide  Hotel. 


Serenade.  145 


SERENADE. 

WAKE,  lady,  wake  !  the  starry  eyes 
Of  heaven  their  nightly  vigils  keep  ; 

Then  why  should  beauty's  brighter  orbs 
Be  vailed  in  envious  sleep  ? 

Here,  along  the  winding  paths, 

Where  evening  hides  their  rainbow  bloom, 
The  flowers  you  love  give  up  to-night 

Their  sweetest,  best  perfume. 

Then  from  your  lattice  kindly  bend 
One  moment  to  survey  the  scene, 

That  lacks  the  loveliest  ornament — 
The  presence  of  Claudine. 

Let  me  but  gaze  on  that  loved  form — 

'Tis  all  my  wishes  dare  desire, 
Then  he  who  all  unknown  adores 

Will  silently  retire. 


146  The  Man  in   Gray. 


THE   MAN    IN    GRAY. 
A  SIMPLE  AND  .TRUE  STORY. 

His  name,  if  ever  known,  has  passed  away  ; 
We  only  knew  him  as  the  "  Man  in  Gray;  " 
Men  shrugged  their  shoulders  when  he  came, 
And  hinted  that  his  wits  had  gone  astray. 
Yet  will  his  deeds  be  entered  on  that  scroll 
That  holds  the  record  of  each  human  soul. 
Poorly,  but  neatly  clad,  he  came  and  went, 
Always  on  deeds  of  charity  intent— r 
Begging  each  one  he  met  to  give  "  one  cent." 
The  rich,  by  Heaven  endowed  with  bounteous  store, 
Would  fain  have  made  his  humble  scrip  flow  o'er. 
But,  no  !     Let  each  the  smallest  coin  bestow- 
So  shall  we  lift  the  load  of  human  woe. 
'Tis  grains  of  sand  that  build  the  mountain  high — 
Atoms,  combined,  create  infinity. 
Such  were  his  thoughts,  and  so  the  Man  in  Gray, 
Begging  for  others,  went  his  weary  way; 
The  gathered  mites  sufficed  to  buy  a  store 
Of  medicine,  of  food — he  sought  no  more. 


O/i,  zvhy  are  the  Roses  so  Pale?         147 

The  fever  patient  knew  his  gentle  face  ; 

Beside  the  couch  of  pain  there  was  his  place ; 

And  when  the  ransomed  spirit  passed  away 

What  prayers  were  murmured  by  the  Man  in  Gray  ! 

To  crippled  children,  reft  of  childhood's  joys, 

The  Man  in  Gray  brought  flowers  and  books  and  toys. 

So,  all  through  life,  the  nameless  hero  trod 

The  Saviour's  footpath  leading  up  to  God. 

Learn  from  his  simple  life,  we  all  have  power 
To  help  our  fellows  in  misfortune's  hour. 
The  wealth  of  trifles  in  the  bitter  day 
Was  demonstrated  by  the  Man  in  Gray. 


OH,  WHY   ARE  THE   ROSES  SO  PALE? 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

OH,  why  are  the  roses  so  pale,  my  love  ? 

Can'st  tell  me  the  reason  why  ? 
And  why  in  the  depths  of  the  grassy  grove 

Does  the  violet  shrink  from  the  eye  ? 


148  Lafayette. 

And  why  has  the  lark  such  a  querulous  lay — 
As  he  soars  to  the  sky  from  the  heath  ? 

And  why  do  the  flowers  that  grow  by  the  way 
Exhale  such  an  odor  of  death  ? 

And  why  is  the  sunlight  so  wan  and  austere 
That  fields  are  enshrouded  in  gloom  ? 

And  why  is  the  bosom  of  earth  so  sere 
That  it  looks  to  the  eye  like  a  tomb  ? 

And  why  do  I  feel  such  a  sickness  at  heart 

By  a  conflict  of  agony  torn  ? 
The  answer,  then,  dearest,  adored  one,  impart, 

Oh,  why  hast  thou  left  me  forlorn  ? 

LAFAYETTE. 

IF  ever  sainted  spirits  leave 

The  limits  of  their  blissful  sphere, 
Lafayette !  we  may  well  believe 

That  thine  to-day  is  hovering  near. 
When  memories  of  the  past  arise — 

The  storm  of  war,  the  charging  line, 
The  stars  and  lilies  side  by  side, 

Yorktown  and  Brandywine, 


Lafayette.  149 

None  braver  than  those  men  of  old 

E'er  wielded  blade  or  levelled  lance — 
Our  country's  hardy  yeomanry, 

The  chivalry  of  France. 
Dear  vvert  thou  to  our  "  chief  of  men," 

His  brother,  friend,  adopted  son  ; 
Who  thinks  of  thee  but  he  recalls 

Our  deathless  Washington  ? 
Fresh  from  the  sculptor's  cunning  hand, 

Thy  form  with  reverence  we  behold — 
Gift  of  thy  liberated  land, 

Dearer  than  molten  gold. 
Living  thou  wert  the  link  to  bind 

Our  country  to  thy  beauteous  land  ; 
The  bond  thy  memory  consecrates 

Intact  shall  ever  stand. 
Long  as  our  mountains  kiss  the  sky 

And  in  the  sun  our  rivers  glance, 
Our  hearts  in  gratitude  and  love 

Shall  proudly  turn  to  France. 
Ne'er  again  may  despot's  sway 

Her  soaring  aspirations  foil ! 
Never  again  invading  foot 

Tread  on  her  verdant  soil ! 


150  Lines   Written  at  Sea. 

From  Liberty's  advancing  form 

Be  every  shadow  backward  cast ! 
And  let  the  purest,  brightest  wreath 

Rest  on  her  brows  at  last ! 
September  6. 

LINES   WRITTEN   AT   SEA. 

"  Though  his  bark  may  not  be  lost, 
Still  it  may  be  tempest  tost."— SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  sky  is  as  black  as  a  sky  can  well  be, 

But  murkier  yet  is  the  thundering  sea ; 

Loud  roars  through  the  rigging  the  fierce  winter  gale 

And  smites  in  its  fury  the  double-reefed  sail. 

We  mount  o'er  the  billows  we  cannot  divide, 

And  sweep  from  the  crests  down  the  watery  slide. 

From  starboard  to  port  we  are  saucily  tost, 

A  boom  like  a  gun  and  the  topsail  is  lost  ! 

Blown  clear  from  the  bolt-ropes  to  leeward  it  flies — 

But  onward  the  dauntless  Westphalia  hies. 

The  spirits  of  storm  may  their  uttermost  do — 
The  good  German  steamer  will  carry  us  through. 
The  lights,  like  a  monster's  unwavering  eyes, 
Glare  scorn  at  the  fury  of  billows  and  skies  ; 


Lines   Written  at  Sea.  151 

The  Vision  of  Death  may  arise  in  our  way, 
But  the  Giant  of  Fire  will  carry  the  day. 
That  giant  we've  tamed  to  the  veriest  slave, 
And  the  might  of  his  toil  has  the  power  to  save. 
He  roars  in  his  den  and  the  thunders  of  steel, 
Like  the  clashing  of  weapons,  his  powers  reveal. 
Look  down  through  the  hatchways  !  Dark  forms  to  and  fro 
Are  reeling  to-night,  and  their  fires  are  aglow. 
There  are  serpent-like  hisses  and  gushes  of  steam, 
Foul  stenches  and  clangor  and  glamour  and  gleam ! 
Keep  the  stokers  at  work  !     On  the  deck  Captain  Stahl, 
Firm  braced  on  his  bridge,  holds  a  watch  over  all ! 
Three  stout  sons  of  Germany  stand  at  the  wheel 
And  grip  to  the  spokes  as  with  vises  of  steel. 
^Keep  the  ship  on  her  course,  with  her  head  to  the  wind, 
The  savage  Atlantic  his  mistress  shall  find ; 
For  the  battle  he  covets  to  us  is  but  sport 
While  the  gallant  Westphalia  bears  us  to  port. 


152  Andreas  Hofer. 

ANDREAS    HOFER. 
TRANSLATED  PROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

Andreas  Hofer,  the  "Tell  of  the  Tyrol,"  defended  the  mountain 
passes  of  his  native  land  against  the  French,  in  1809,  with  heroic 
bravery.  He  was  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  a  French  general,  tried 
and  sentenced  by  court-martial,  at  Mantua,  and  shot  February  20, 
1810.  His  son  was  ennobled  by  the  Emperor  of  Austria  ;  and  his  body 
lies  in  the  splendid  Cathedral  of  Innspruck. 

AT  Mantua,  in  fetters, 

Heroic  Hofer  lay; 
The  foe,  to  death,  in  Mantua, 

Had  carried  him  away. 
Each  brother's  heart  with  anguish  bled — 
In  Germany  what  tears  were  shed, 

And  Tyrol's  mountain  land  ! 

With  hands  behind  him  folded, 

Unshaken,  hand  and  limb, 
He  marched  with  steady  footsteps, 

For  what  was  death  to  him  ? 
Death,  which  his  hand,  in  leaden  hail 
Had  oft  hurled  downward  on  the  vale 

In  Tyrol's  holy  land. 


Andreas  Hofer.  153 

When,  from  the  prison -grating, 

The  mountaineer's  keen  eye 
Had  seen  his  brother  riflemen 

Hold  up  their  hands  on  high, 
He  prayed  that  God  would  give  them  aid, 
And  bless  poor  Germany  betrayed, 

And  Tyrol,  land  adored. 

No  stirring  martial  drum-beat 

Was  there  to  time  the  march 
As  forth  Andreas  Hofer 

Moved  from  the  dungeon's  arch. 
There,  on  the  frowning  bastion,  he, 
In  spite  of  chains,  stood  spirit-free, 

Tyrol's  heroic  son  ; 

And  said,  when  told  that  he  must  kneel : 

"  My  knee  I  will  not  bend, 
But  stand  as  I  have  stood  and  fought, 

Nor  crouch  to  meet  my  end  ; 
Unveiled,  behold  the  lightning  glance 
Of  Death.     Long  live  my  emperor,  Franz, 

And  Tyrol's  mountain  land." 
7* 


1 54  Drifting. 

The  bandage  to  a  grenadier 

He  gave,  and,  undismayed, 
The  hero,  for  a  moment's  space, 

In  silent  fervor  prayed. 

Then  shouted,  "  Fire  !  "    Forth  leaped  the  flame, 
"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;   "how  ill  you  aim. 

Dear  Tyrol,  fare  thee  well !  " 


DRIFTING. 

MY  bark  drifts  over  a  soundless  sea, 
While  the  untrimmed  sails  flap  wearily, 
And  her  timbers  yield  a  painful  moan 
That  answers  the  gray  sea's  undertone, 
Wrinkled  and  gray,  as  I  have  grown. 

Listless  I  lie  on  the  mouldy  deck, 
Heedless  if  drifting  to  port  or  wreck, 
Never  a  hand  to  the  wheel  I  lift 
But  suffer  the  worn  old  bark  to  drift, 
Whether  the  wind  blow  high  or  low, 
Or  the  subtle  current  and  undertow 
Draw  her  on  with  resistless  guile 
To  the  fatal  reefs  of  a  coral  isle. 


Drifting.  1 5  5 

For  whether  I  lie  in  the  ruthless  sea, 
Or  in  sacred  earth  my  slumbers  be, 
Is  matter  of  small  account  to  me. 

For  the  light  of  life  is  quenched  and  gone, 
And  a  pall  hJhgs  over  the  noonday  sun, 
And  the  once-loved  song  of  the  summer  sea 
Rings  like  a  knell  from  the  billows  free. 

The  light  of  my  life  was  from  kindly  eyes, 
That  every  morn  were  a  glad  surprise, 
And  the  chiming  song  of  the  summer  sea 
Owed  all  of  its  winning  minstrelsy 
To  the  joyous  laugh  that  came  with  the  breath 
Of  lips  that  are  sealed  in  steadfast  death. 
A  human  life  was  the  golden  key 
Of  nature's  limitless  treasury. 

So  by  the  useless  helm  I  sit, 

While  the  drifting  shadows  fail  and  flit 

Over  the  web  of  the  dusky  sail, 

As  clouds  are  driven  by  breeze  or  gale, 

And  even  the  sun  on  the  pulseless  sea 

Shines  with  no  golden  nght  for  .me. 


156          Abd-el-Kader  and  Napoleon  III. 


ABD-EL-KADER   AND    NAPOLEON    III. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO.* 

"  The  Emir  himselflooked  no  unworthy  leader  of  such  a  host.  His 
keen  eye  glittered  like  a  falcon's  under  the  snowy  hood  which  threw 
his  war-worn  face  into  deep  shadow.  His  nervous,  wiry  figure,  of 
which  the  muscular  proportions  were  scarcely  concealed  by  the  loose, 
white  garments  that  drooped  about  him,  sat  erect  upon  his  lofty,  cum 
brous  saddle,  unlike  those  of  his  chiefs,  ornamented  only  by  a  border 
of  seed  pearls  embroidered  on  its  velvet  housings.  His  black  mare, 
with  her  clean,  small  head  and  scarlet  nostrils,  arched  her  foam- 
flecked  neck,  as  she  champed  and  fretted  on  a  powerful  bit  under  the 
loose  rein  and  light  touch  of  her  rider's  hand.  A  cord  of  twisted  tis 
sue,  striped  like  a  serpent's  skin,  secured  the  hood  of  the  Emir's  bur 
nouse  ;  a  sharp  sabre  hung,  edge  uppermost,  at  his  belt.  Save  these, 
arms  and  ornaments  he  had  none !  Yet  the  Englishman,  scanning  that 
white-draped  figure  on  the  good  black  mare,  standing  out  from  the 
array  of  Arab  chivalry,  apart  and  by  itself,  wondered  no  longer  at  the 
Emir's  ascendency  over  his  people,  at  their  heroic  and  unreasoning 
devotions  to  one,  in  whom,  like  a  second  Mahomet,  they  believed  as 
warrior,  priest,  and  king." — G.  J.  WHYTE  MELVILLE. 

WHEN  Abd-el-Kader,  from  his  cell, 
Beheld  the  small-eyed  man  advance 

Whom  History  and  whom  Troplong  call 
Napoleon  Third  of  France  ; 

*  Written  by  the  French  poet  soon  after  the  infamous  and  bloody 
coup  d'etat  of  December  2,  1852. 


Abd-el-Kader  and  Napoleon  HI.          157 

Saw,  coming  to  his  dungeon-grate, 

Close  followed  by  his  servile  band, 
Th'  Elysee's  dull  and  squint-eyed  man  ; 

He  of  the  desert's  sand, 

He,  sultan  born,  beneath  the  palms, 

Playmate  of  lions  huge  and  wild, 
The  Hadji,  with  his  calm  dark  eyes, 

The  Emir,  fierce  yet  mild  ; 

He,  pitiless  as  Fate  itself, 

Riding,  white-robed  with  spectral  glare, 
Now,  drunk  with  carnage,  spurring  forth, 

Then  kneeling  low  in  prayer  ; 

Who  flinging  wide  his  canvas  tent, 
And  bending  'neath  the  evening  star, 

Feared  not  to  lift  in  reverence 
His  hands  blood-red  with  war; 

Who  gave  the  sword  its  draught  of  blood, 

Yet,  with  a  mystic,  dreaming  eye, 
Throned  on  a  pile  of  human  heads, 

Surveyed  the  beauteous  sky  ; 


158          Abd-el-Kader  and  Napoleon  III. 

Seeing  the  treacherous,  cunning  look, 
The  low  brow  with  its  brand  of  shame, 

He,  splendid  soldier,  glorious  priest, 
Asked  who  it  was  that  came  ? 

Who  was  this  base  mustachio'd  mask 

He  knew  not, — but  they  told  him — "  See  ! 

The  lictors  with  their  axes  pass — 
The  bandit  Caesar  he  ! 

"  List,  Emir,  to  these  mournful  wails — 
This  clamor  rising  from  the  dust ; 

This  man  by  mothers  is  reviled, 
By  woman's  tongue  is  cursed. 

"  He  makes  them  widows — rends  their  hearts- 
France  by  his  traitor  hand  is  dead, 

And  now  he  gnaws  her  body."     Then 
The  Emir  bowed  his  head. 

But  loathing  in  his  heart  the  rogue 
In  whom  he  knew  all  vices  blent, 

The  tiger's  nostril  in  disdain 

Turned  from  the  wolfs  vile  scent. 


Vorwaerts  !  Immer  Vonvaerts  !  1 59 

VORWAERTS  !  IMMER  VORWAERTS  ! 

ON,  still  on  !  the  ground  is  quaking 

With  the  cannon's  thunder-roll, 
Never  daunting,  never  shaking 

Germany's  heroic  soul. 
Does  the  river,  from  the  mountain 

Launched  with  a  resistless  force, 
Refluent,  seek  its  native  fountain 

Pouring  backward  in  its  course  ? 

Backward  !     Tis  a  word  unspoken 

In  the  language  of  the  North. 
Till  the  opposing  force  be  broken 

Still  the  tide  must  thunder  forth  ; 
Tossing  high  its  plumy  billows, 

Over  mountain,  over  plain, 
Onward,  to  where  Paris  pillows 

Her  fair  head  beside  the  Seine. 

But  no  more  the  Siren,  sleeping, 
Dreams  in  sloth  her  hours  away, 

Clad  in  mail  a  watch  she's  keeping 
Ready  for  the  fiery  fray. 


1 60  Vorwaerts  !  Immer  Vorivaerts  ! 

Now  she  bids  her  cannon  utter 
Words  of  no  uncertain  sound, 

Hopes  she  by  her  breath  to  flutter 

Hearts  like  those  who  close  her  round  ? 

Cannonade  and  furious  sally 

Heaping  the  broad  field  with  slain, 
Charging  column,  desperate  rally, 

Deeds  of  glory — all  are  vain. 
For  the  shadow  on  the  dial 

Never  wavers,  never  waits  ; 
Lonely  in  her  hour  of  trial, 

She  "must  open  wide  her  gates. 

Hers  the  hand  that  loosed  the  torrent, 

Hers  the  breast  to  feel  the  blow ; 
She  must  quaff,  howe'er  abhorrent, 

To  its  dregs  the  cup  of  woe. 
Happy  still  if  she  discover 

How  the  future  may  be  won, 
And  the  might,  the  wide  world  over, 

Of  the  brave  words  :  "  On,  still  on  !  " 


Death  and  Life.  161 


DEATH  AND  LIFE. 

A  FUNERAL  train,  with  solemn  pace  and  slow, 

Moved  through  the  street,  nor  paused  the  idle  throng 

To  mark  the  common  pageantry  of  woe, 

Or  ask  what  shrouded  form  was  borne  along. 

In  that  procession  I  alone  descried 

A  winged  angel  who,  with  drooping  head, 

Keeping  his  place  the  shrouded  hearse  beside, 
Moved  o'er  the  pavement  with  a  noiseless  tread. 

The  sculptured  cemetery-gate  at  last 

Threw  its  deep  shadow  on  the  halted  train  ; 

Its  dark  brown  leaves  appeared  securely  fast, 
The  angel  smote  once,  twice,  and  again. 

Then  from  within  a  voice  of  silver  tone, 
Of  a  strange,  thrilling  melody  possessed, 

Asked,  in  a  tongue  to  all  but  me  unknown, 

"  Whom  is  it  them  biing'st  hither  ?  "     "A  still  guest." 


1 62  Death  and  Life. 

"  What  is  it  that  he  seeks  ?  "     "  He  seeks  repose." 
"  The  rest  /give  is  dreamless,"  said  the  Unseen  ; 

"  My  gates  to  every  mortal  must  unclose — 

Gates  which  the  House  of  Silence  shield  and  screen." 

Noiseless  the  portal  opened.     Forth  there  came 

A  second  angel,  and  I  held  my  breath, 
For  on  his  brow  there  burned  a  wreath  of  flame, 

It  was  Azrael,.  angel  crowned  of  Death  ! 

And  he  who  walked  beside  the  bier, 

Angel  of  Life.     So  each  the  other  clasped, 

And  neither  smiled,  and  neither  shed  a  tear, 
As  through  the  gate  the  funeral  convoy  passed. 

The  angels  met  and  parted  at  the  portal, 

None  saw  their  mute  embrace  and  mute  farewell, 

Or  knew  what  Spirits  welcomed  an  Immortal, 

And  mourned  not,  for  they  knew  that  all  was  well. 


Good- Night.  163 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

ALL  alone  on  the  wrathful  ocean, 
Cold  and  black  in  its  fierce  commotion  ! 
Where  is  the  bark  with  its  pennon  gay, 
That  bore  us  to  sea  on  a  summer  day, 
With  sun-gilt  sails  and  a  merry  crew, 
Above  and  below  a  field  of  blue  ? 
Where  are  the  lips  that  laughed  and  sang 
As  over  the  billows  our  vessel  sprang  ? 

The  wild  cyclone  rent  every  sail, 
The  spars  were  lost  in  the  savage  gale, 
The  waters  rose  and  the  waters  fell, 
Crushing  to  pieces  the  feeble  shell. 
Never  a  friendly  sail  in  sight ! 
The  man-eating  shark  sups  well  to-night, 
And  I,  alone  in  my,agony, 
Swimming  for  life  on  the  midnight  sea. 

Oh,  for  a  plank  !     Oh,  for  an  oar  ! 
To  die  so  near  to   the  destined  shore  ! 


1 64  Good-Night. 

Yet  why  should  I  live  ?     Why  struggle  on 
When  they  who  made  life  a  boon  are  gone  ? 
But,  look  !  a  star,  like  an  angel's  eye, 
Beams  through  a  rift  in  the  cloven  sky. 

Brighter  than  jewel  in  diadem, 

It  shines  like  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ; 

Over  foaming  wave-crest  and  desperate  hollow 

Its  silver  pathway  is  that  I  must  follow. 

Muscle  and  sinew  be  true  to  your  lord, 

And  save  me  to-night  from  a  death  abhorred  ! 

Give  me,  fair  star,  but  thy  radiance  bright, 

I  will  not  be  food  for  the  shark  to-night. 

Quenched  and  gone  !  it  is  starless  now, 

A  circle  of  iron  is  binding  my  brow ; 

My  pulse  is  faint,  my  senses  swim, 

And  weary,  how  weary  is  every  limb  ! 

And,  sharper  than  death,  through  the  waters  dark 

I  hear  the  rush  of  the  fin-back  shark. 

Never  my  footsteps  shall  press  the  shore, 

I  go  to  those  who  have  gone  before  ; 

Horror  and  storm — not  a  ray  of  light  ! 

Terrible  world,  Good-night !  Good-night  ! 


Edwin  Forrest.  165 


EDWIN   FORREST. 

THE  curtain  falls.     The  drama  of  life 

Is  ended.     One  who  trod  the  mimic  stage 

As  if  the  crown,  the  sceptre,  and  the  robe 

Were  his  by  birthright — worn  from  youth  to  age- 

"Aye,  every  inch  a  king,"  with  voiceless  lips, 

Lies  in  the  shadow  of  Death's  cold  eclipse. 

Vblete  etplaudite  !     Well  might  he 
Have  used  the  Roman  language  of  farewell, 

Who  was  the  "  noblest  Roman  of  them  all ;  " 
For  Brutus  spoke  and  Coriolanus  fell, 

And  Spartacus  defied  the  she-wolfs  power 

In  the  great  actor's  high  meridian  hour. 

How  as  the  noble  Moor  he  wooed  and  wed 
His  bride  of  Venice  ;  how  his  o'erwrought  soul, 

Tortured  and  racked  and  wildly  passion  tossed, 
Was  whirled,  resisting,  to  the  fatal  goal, 

Doting,  yet  dooming  !     Every  trait  was  true  ; 

He  lived  the  king  the  poet  drew. 


1 66  Edwin  Forrest. 

Room  for  the  aged  Cardinal !     Once  more 

The  greatest  statesman  France  has  ever  known 

Waked  from  the  grave  and  wove  his  subtle  spells ; 
A  power  behind,  but  greater  than  the  throne. 

Is  Richelieu  gone  ?     It  seems  but  yesterday 

We  heard  his  voice  and  saw  his  features  play. 

Greatest  of  all  in  high  creative  skill 

Was  Lear,  poor,  discrowned  king  and  hapless  sire. 
What  varied  music  in  the  actor's  voice  ! 

The  sigh  of  grief,  the  trumpet  tone  of  ire. 
Now  both  are  hushed;  we  ne'er  shall  hear  that  strain 
Of  well-remembered  melody  again. 

No  fading  laurels  did  his  genius  reap ; 

With  Shakespeare's  best  interpreters  full  high 
His  name  is  graven  on  Fame's  temple  front, 

With  Kean's  and  Kemble's,  names  that  will  not  die 
While  memory  venerates  the  poet's  shrine 
And  holds  his  music  more  than  half  divine. 


Omvard.  167 


ONWARD. 

NOR  look  nor  footstep  backward  turn, 
Though  many  a  vanished  scene  be  fair ; 

There's  less  nepenthe  in  the  urn 
Of  memory  than  despair. 

The  future  we  can  carve  at  will — 
The  sculptured  past  defies  our  skill. 

Why  summon  up  the  weird  array 
Of  spectres  false — Delusion's  train  ? 

The  idols  time  has  proved  of  clay 
Will  ne'er  be  gold  again  : 

Nor  deft  alchemy  restore 

The  treasures  that  we  prized  of  yore. 

Onward  life's  river  boldly  pours— 

And  when  we've  won  the  skill  to  guide 

Then  enginery  of  sails  and  oars, 
Why  backward  cleave  the  tide  ? 

If  beauty  charmed  the  vanished  scene, 
We'll  look  to  find  some  new  Undine. 


1 68  The  Lovely  Fisher  maiden. 

The  wreaths  that  decked  our  youthful  brows 
Have  lost  their  brightness  and  perfume  : 

We'll  weave  our  crowns  from  fresher  boughs 
And  flowers  of  richer  bloom. 

And  brighter  sunbeams  than  of  old 

Shall  change  our  sails  to  molten  gold. 

We  will  not  think  of  reef  or  wreck, 
Of  latent  dangers  hurried  o'er, 

Of  storms  that  whilom  swept  our  deck, 
Our  Pharos  shines  before, 

And  gilds  the  waves  that  ceaseless  sweep 

* 

On  the  vast,  eternal  deep. 


THE   LOVELY   FISHERMA1DEN. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINB. 

THOU  lovely  fishermaiden, 

Come  row  thy  boat  to  land, 
And  sit  thee  down  beside  me, 

We'll  whisper,  hand-in-hand. 

Thy  head  upon  my  bosom, 

Fear  not,  my  child,  to  rest, 
Dost  thou  not  frolic  daily 

With  the  ocean's  heaving  breast  ? 


The  Old  Corporal  169 

My  heart  is  like  that  ocean 

With  its  stormy  ebb  and  flow, 
And  hides  full  many  a  priceless  pearl 

Within  its  depths  below. 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  BERANGER. 
MARCH,  comrades,  march — the  hour  has  come- 

With  shouldered  arms  and  bearing  steady  ! 
You've  my  discharge  within  your  guns, 

My  time  is  up  and  I  am  ready. 
I've  lingered  in  the  ranks  too  long, 

Grown  gray  in  camp  and  battle  ;  still 
I  loved  you,  lads,  and  liked  to  teach 
The  manual  of  arms  and  drills. 
Conscripts,  don't  weep — 
But  mark  !  step  keep  ! 
Right  foot !  step  keep  ! 

A  beardless  boy  insulted  me — 

Think  you  his  epaulettes  I  saw  ? 
I  cut  him  down  !     He's  getting  well  ; 

I  die — for  that  is  martial  law. 
8 


170  The  Old  Corporal. 

Brandy  and  passion  did  their  work, 
To  vengeance  I  was  hurried  on  ; 
Pride — honor — how  could  I  forget 
When  I  had  served  Napoleon  ? 
Conscripts,  don't  weep — 
But  mark  !  step  keep  ! 
Right  foot !  step  keep  ! 

Conscripts,  you'll  never  have  the  chance 

To  win  the  cross  that  valor  brings  ; 
I  got  mine  in  those  wars  of  old, 

Those  wars  in  which  we  hustled  kings. 
You've  paid  the  drinks  when  I  have  told 

Of  battles  fierce  in  sand  and  snow 
Of  Egypt,  Russia,  and  the  rest ; 
But  what  avail  is  glory  now  ? 

Conscripts,  don't  weep- 
But  mark  !  step  keep  ! 
Right  foot !  step  keep  ! 

Robert,  you  left  my  native  town — 
Go  back  and  tend  your  father's  sheep. 

Yon  trees  are  green,  but  greener  far 
Our  forests  in  their  endless  sweep. 


The  Old  Corporal.  1 

How  oft  I've  ranged  our  woodland  glades 

When  leaves  and  moss  with  dews  were  wet. 
This  hour  their  memory  bright  revives  ! 
There  my  old  mother's  living  yet  ! 
Conscripts,  don't  weep 
But  mark  !  step  keep  ! 
Right  foot  !  step  keep  ! 

What  woman's  sobbing  then  ?     I  know — 

The  drummer's  widow.     Far  away 
In  Russia,  in  the  rear-guard  ranks 
I  bore  her  baby  night  and  day ; 
And  but  for  me,  the  babe  and  she 
A  sepulchre  of  snow  had  known. 
Kind  heart  !  my  soul  will  have  her  prayers 
Ere  many  minutes  past  have  flown. 
Conscripts,  don't  weep — 
But  mark  !  step  keep  ! 
Right  foot !  step  keep. 

The  deuce  !  my  pipe  is  out  at  last ! 

We've  reached  the  spot  !     How  fast  time  rlies  ! 
Now,  comrades,  take  aim  steadily  ! 

Don't  tie  that  rag  about  my  eyes  ! 


172  The  Hussar  and  his  Horse. 

Sorry  to  trouble  you  so  much  ! 

Just  one  word  more — don't  fire  too  low  ! 
A  safe  returns  to  happy  homes  ! 

Good-night  !     It's  time  for  me  to  go  ! 
Conscripts,  don't  weep — 
But  mark  !  step  keep  ! 
Right  foot  !  step  keep  ! 


THE  HUSSAR  AND  HIS  HORSE. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  HUNGARIAN. 

PALE,  faint,  upon  the  moonlit  grass 

A  wounded  Magyar  lay, 
While  like  a  trickling  rivulet 

His  life-blood  ebbed  away. 

He  looked  upon  his  faithful  steed, 
Who  stood  with  drooping  head — 

His  loyal  servant  through  the  war — 
And  bitter  tears  he  shed. 

And  must  we  part,  old  comrade,  friend  ? 

Thou  wilt  have  sorry  fare 
Within  Vienna's  hated  walls — 

The  water's  brackish  there. 


The  Hussar  and  his  Horse.  173 

The  hay  is  bitter.     In  the  stall 

Thou' It  look  in  vain  for  me, 
And  how  can  I  repose  in  peace 

My  beauty  without  thee  ? 

Before  thy  bound,  before  my  blade, 

The  savage  foe  went  down  ; 
And  can'st  thou  bear  the  galling  weight 

Of  some  barefooted  clown  ? 

He  kissed  his  horse,  he  petted  him, 

His  memory  all  ablaze, 
Even  as  the  rainbow  gilds  the  storm, 

Brought  thoughts  of  happier  days. 

'Tis  better  that  we  should  not  part — 

Together  we  have  striven — 
They'll  want  us  up  above  to  hunt 

The  Germans  out  of  heaven. 

And  when  the  skies  are  clear  of  them, 

The  brave  Hussar  perforce, 
Must  keep  pace  with  the  lightning's  flash  ; 

In  Heaven  he  needs  his  horse. 


174  Autumn. 

He  snatched  his  sabre,  thrust  it  deep 

Within  his  horse's  heart ; 
Their  life-blood  flowed  in  blended  streams- 

They  would  not,  could  not  part. 

And  down  upon  the  battle-field 
Gazed  silent  moon  and  star, 

Where  lay  in  death  the  faithful  horse 
Beside  the  dead  Hussar. 


AUTUMN. 

CAN  this  be  death  with  all  this  pageantry, 

These  treasures  of  a  wondrous  alchemy, 

Leaves  changed  to  gold,  and  disks  of  dusky  brown 

To  flakes  of  crimson,  touched  with  quivering  fire  ? 

This  is  no  funeral,  but  a  coronation — 

Nature  renounces  Death.     The  heralds  cry  : 

"  The  king  is  dead,"  but  add  :  "  Long  live  the  king  ! 

Her  throne  is  never  vacant.     Now  she  writes, 

In  jewelled  hieroglyphs,  her  proud  "  Resurgam."  * 

These  gems  of  vivid  color  that  surround  us 

Breathe  not  defeat,  but  victory;  a  triumph 

*  I  shall  rise  again. 


/;/  Memory  of  James  Oakes.  175 

O'er  the  pallid,  scowling  King  of  Terrors. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  death,  only  a  halt 
In  the  relentless  march  of  Time,  while  wide 
The  gates  of  gold  are  flung  before  the  hosts 
Innumerable,  ever  moving  onward, 
Upward,  also  to  Eternal  Life. 


IN   MEMORY    OF   JAMES    OAKES. 

"  A  man  so  sterling  and  true  that  his  friendship  was  a  consecration 
like  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor." — New  York  Evening  Express. 

BENEATH  the  verdant  sod  and  whispering  trees, 
His  requiem  sweetly  sung  by  bird  and  breeze  : 
Like  the  true  friend  of  many  changeful  years, 
Serene  and  sad,  of  laughter  and  of  tears. 
The  joy  was  brighter,  grief  less  hard  to  bear, 
With  his  warm  sympathy  in  both  to  share. 
When  the  death-angel  visited  my  door, 
And,  one  by  one,  away  my  treasures  bore, 
His  voice  it  was  that  taught  me  how  to  bear 
The  weight  of  sorrow  and  defy  despair. 
The  harshest  critic  might  his  record  scan, 
Nor  could  deny  him  this — He  was  a  man  ! 


176          "Look  in  thy  Heart  and  Write" 

Aye,  every  inch  a  man,  true,  generous,  brave, 
Steadfast  in  friendship  to  the  closing  grave  ; 
In  health,  in  sickness,  in  the  parting  hour, 
He  never  bowed  to  Wealth,  or  cringed  to  Power. 
Friend  of  the  friendless,  to  the  suffering  poor 
His  aid,  unasked,  was  liberal  and  sure  ; 
No  ostentatious  aid — in  secret  given- 
Forgotten  here,  but  registered  in  Heaven. 
Thousands  his  manly  virtues  will  attest, 
And  bathe  with  tears  his  lovely  place  of  rest. 
Those  who  best  knew  him  were  those  who  loved  him  best. 
June  12,  1878. 


"LOOK  IN   THY   HEART   AND    WRITE." 

THUS  did'st  thou,  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 

Teach  the  secret  of  all  art. 
Printed  page,  illumined  missal 

Do  but  weary  lore  impart ; 
Echo  not  another's  fancies, 

Be  the  artist  of  thy  heart. 

Sculptor  !  not  in  venal  model 

Wilt  thou  beauty's  image  find  ; 
Rather  seek  the  bright  ideal 


"Look  in  thy  Heart  and  Write."  177 

In  thy  heart  of  hearts  enshrined  ; 
Lines  of  nature,  lines  of  fancy, 
In  a  wondrous  whole  combined. 

Painter  !  memories  of  sunsets 

Kindling  earth,  and  air,  and  sea  ; 

Springtime's  promise,  autumn's  glory, 
Must  thy  inspiration  be, 

Thence  the  magic  evolution 
Of  a  master's  royalty. 

Study,  poet,  study  ever, 

But  th'  unwritten  Book  of  Life, 
Nature's  tome  that  holds  forever 

Joy  and  sorrow,  peace  and  strife. 

Ponder  well  its  many  lessons, 

Take  them  to  thy  inmost  soul. 
Would'st  thou  see  the  world  enchanted  ? 

Then  unfold  the  precious  scroll. 

Keep  not  back  one  bright  impression, 

Not  one  inspiration  smother  ; 
Make  thy  poem  a  confession 

And  each  man  will  be  thy  brother. 


1 78  For  the  King  ! 


FOR  THE  KING  ! 

THE  lady  of  Ashleigh  has  armed  her  good  lord, 
To  heel  and  to  waist  buckled  fast  spur  and  sword, 
Across  his  broad  shoulders  his  baldric  has  cast, 
And  brings  him  a  cavalry-guidon  at  last. 
"  This  poor  little  flag  I  have  'broidered  for  thee, 
With  the  crown  and  the  sceptre  in  gold  thread  you  see  ; 
Let  it  float  in  the  van  when  the  welkin  shall  ring 
With  the  Cavaliers'  thundering  "Long  live  the  King !  " 

"  One  kiss,  noble  wench,  ere  I  ride  to  the  fray  ; 
The  Roundheads  shall  know  me  and  feel  me  to-day, 
If  Old  Noll  is  there  the  wild  echoes  shall  ring 
As  the  stout    men  of  Ashleigh   strike  home   (  For    the 
King  ! ' " 

The  tenants  of  Ashleigh  were  loyal  and  leal ; 
The  court-yard  was  filling  with  scarlet  and  steel, 
And  stout  old  Sir  Christopher,  bravest  and  best, 
Spurred  out  of  the  gate  in  advance  of  the  rest. 


Italy.  179 

The  lady  of  Ashleigh  is  kneeling  in  prayer, 

While  the  mutter  of  battle  is  filling  the  air ; 

As  each  breeze  brings  the  shudder  of  death  on  its  wing 

She  prays  for  Sir  Christopher— prays  for  the  King. 

The  darkness  is  deep,  and  the  hour  is  late 

When  the  tramp  of  a  war-horse  is  heard  at  the  gate  ; 

In  his  saddle  the  rider  is  sitting  erect, 

But  ah  !  with  what  stain  his  bright  armor  is  flecked  ! 

"I  am  faint.     Quick  !  a  goblet  of  Burgundy  bring  !  " 

He  raises  the  cup  and  he  drinks  to  the  King. 

"  Here's  your  color,  my  lass ;    there   are  stains   on  its 

shine  — 

Some  blood  of  the  rebels,  and  some  blood  of  mine. 
Your  cup  has  revived  me,  'twas  excellent  wine. 
When  the  last  clod  of  earth  on  my  coffin  they  fling, 
Let  them  know,  dearest  Lilian,  I — died — for  the  King  !" 


ITALY. 

TELL  me  not  it  was  all  a  dream, 
Wrought  out  of  Fancy's  falsest  ties, 

That  we  have  basked  beneath  the  gleam 
Of  Italy's  unrivalled  skies. 


180  Italy. 

At  Venice  did  we  watch  on  high 

The  moon  and  stars  in  glittering  march, 
Emerging  in  our  gondola 

From  the  Rialto's  midnight  arch  ? 
Did  we  not  see  the  sudden  storm 

Sweep  down  the  crested  Apennines 
Blunting  within  its  murky  folds 

The  lances  of  the  waving  pines  ? 

Did  we  not  in  eternal  Rome 

Behold,  as  Art  enchained  our  breath, 
The  triumph  of  the  molten  bronze, 
The  gladiator's  deathless  death  ? 
And  Naples — color,  life,  and  light, 

Pompeii,  Baia,  and  Capri, 
Vesuvius,  glowing  through  the  night — 
These  did  we  dream  or  did  we  see  ? 
Florence  the  fair  and  Genoa, 

Milan,  Marengo's  battle-plain, 
Rise  bright  before  my  mental  eye 

When  slumber  brings  a  truce  to  pain, 
If  these  be  dreams,  I  only  ask 

Often  to  dream  such  dreams  again. 


France.  i  B I 


FRANCE. 

LAND  of  my  Fathers  !  lovely  France  ! 

I  greet  thee  with  a  glad  All  hail  ! 
Now  thou  hast  dropped  the  shattered  lance 

And  laid  aside  the  glittering  mail. 
Thy  hand  the  oriflamme  has  furled, 

Thy  voice  made  war's  wild  trumpet  cease, 
And  now  the  whole  admiring  world 

Has  crowned  thee  Queen  of  Peace. 


In  savage  conflict  countless  foes 

O'ennatched  thee  on  the  battle-plain, 

Filled  to  the  brim  thy  cup  of  woes 

And  vowed  thou  ne'er  should  rise  again. 

But  thou  hast  risen,  and  to  a  height 
Ne'er  conquered  by  avenging  steel, 

Ne'er  stormed  by  war's  imposing  might 
With  roar  of  drums  and  cannon's  peal. 


1 82  France. 

By  peaceful  ar.ts.  by  toiling  hands, 
Well  hast  thou  won  thy  new  renown, 

And  rightly  now  thy  glorious  brow 
Is  circled  by  the  civic  crown, 

And  men  no  more  behold  thy  face 
Distorted  by  a  withering  frown. 

The  busy  mill,  the  vine-clad  hill, 
The  plowshare  furrowing  the  field, 

The  artist  with  creative  skill 

Pencil  and  chisel  trained  to  wield 

These  rally  to  thee  every  heart, 
That  loves  the  Beautiful  and  True  ; 

We  kneel  before  thee  Queen  of  Art, 
With  homage  justly  true. 

Peaceful,  but  armed,  should  foreign  guns 
Again  thy  noble  breast  assail, 

Against  the  valor  of  thy  sons 
Numbers  would  not  avail. 

Bitter  the  lesson  thou  hast  learned, 
Thy  taskmaster  a  ruthless  foe  ; 

But  truest  glory  hast  thou  earned 
Through  agony  and  woe. 


Christianas  ad  Leones.  183 

And  now  pursue  thy  high  career, 

The  world  regards  thy  proud  advance 

And  millions  peal  the  loud'acclaim 
Of  salut  a  la  France  ! 


CHRISTIANOS  AD   LEONES. 

GIVE  the  Christians  to  the  lions  !  was  the  savage  Roman 

cry, 
And  the   vestal   virgins    added,  their  voices    shrill    and 

high, 
And  Caesar  gave  the  order  :   "  Loose  the  lions  from  their 

den! 
For   Rome  must  have  a  spectacle  worthy  of  gods  and 

men." 

Forth  to  the  broad  arena  a  little  band  was  led, 

But  words  forbear  to  utter  how  the  sinless  blood   was 

shed, 
No    sigh    the   victims   proffered,   but    now   and    then  a 

prayer, 
From  lips  of  age  and  lips  of  youth  rose  upward  on  the 

air; 


1 84  Christianas  ad  Leones. 

And   the   savage    Caesar   muttered :    "By    Hercules    I 

swear, 
Braver  than  gladiators  these  dogs  of  Christians  are." 

Then  a  lictor  bending  slavishly,  saluting  with  his  axe, 
Said,  "  Mighty  Imperator  !  the  sport  one  feature  lacks  ; 
We  have  an  Afric  lion,  savage  and  great  of  limb, 
Fasting  since  yestreen.     Is  the  Grecian  maid  for  him  ?  " 

The  emperor  assented.     With  a  frantic  roar  and  bound, 
The    monster,  bursting    from    his    den,  gazed    terribly 

around, 

And  toward  him  moved  a  maiden,  slowly  but  yet  serene. 
"  By  Venus  !  "  cried  the  emperor,   "  she  walketh  like  a 

queen." 

Unconscious  of  the  myriad  eyes  she  crossed  the  blood- 
soaked  sand, 

Till  face  to  face  the  maid  and  beast,  in  opposition 
stand ; 

The  daughter  of  Athene,  in  white  arrayed  and  fair, 

Gazed  on  the  monster's  lowered  brow  and  breathed  a 
silent  prayer. 

Then  forth  she  drew  a  crucifix  and  held  it  high  in  air. 


Ch ristianos  ad  Leone s .  185 

Lo  and  behold  !  a  miracle  !  the  lion's  fury  fled, 

And   at   the    Christian   maiden's  feet  he  laid  his  lordly 

head. 
While   as  she   fearlessly  caressed,  he  slowly   rose,  and 

then, 
With  one  soft   backward  look  at  her,  retreated  to  his 

den. 
One  shout  rose  from  the  multitude,  tossed  like  a  stormy 

sea ; 
"  The  gods  have  so  decreed  it.  let  the  Grecian  maid  go 

free." 

Within    the    Catacombs  that  night,  a  saint  with  snowy 

hair, 
Folded   upon  his  aged  breast  his  daughter  young  and 

fair  ; 
And   gathered   brethren   lifted  a   chant   of  praise   and 

prayer  : 
From    the   monster   of    the   desert,    from   the    heathen 

fierce  and  wild, 
God  hath  restored  to  life  and  love  his  sinless,  trusting 

child. 


1 86         To  my  Dear  Niece,  Rosa  B.  Hunt. 


TO    MY   DEAR   NIECE,   ROSA    B.   HUNT. 

IF  in  the  winter  of  my  life 

I  ever  could  forget  its  spring, 
Thy  voice  its  music  would  recall, 

Thy  smile  would  back  its  brightness  bring. 

So  when  across  the  lurid  sky 

The  clouds  in  black  procession  march, 

They  change  to  the  delighted  eye, 
Beneath  the  rainbow's  glowing  arch. 

And  thus  the  weary  traveller, 

Almost  despairing  of  repose, 
Limping  along  the  downward  path, 

Is  gladdened  by  the  way-side  rose. 

Forgive,  I  pray,  this  tunele'ss  lay — 
Words  will  not  come  at  my  command, 

And  I  can  only  simply  say, 

I  am  thine  ever,  heart  and  hand. 


Sea-side  Visions.  187 


SEA-SIDE   VISIONS. 

ALONG  the  hard  gray  beach  we  strayed, 

As  sunset  melted  from  the  sight, 
And  stars  were  one  by  one  displayed 

Upon  the  azure  flag  of  night — 
The  breeze  came  off  the  misty  main, 

With  healing  in  its  balmy  breath, 
Silent  above,  the  glittering  train, 

Below,  the  hush  of  death. 

Then  buried  memories  awoke, 

The  phantom  glories  of  the  past ; 
Voices  long  hushed,  in  music  spoke 

To  yearning  hearts  they  thrilled  at  last, 
Hands  long  since  mouldered  in  the  dust, 

Returned  a  pressure  fond  and  warm ; 
Hearts  beat  again  we  loved  to  trust, 

Through  sunshine  and  through  storm. 

And  thus  our  unsealed  eyes  beheld 
Visions  beyond  mere  mortal  scope, 

The  future  life — the  buried  eld, 
A  memory  and  a  hope. 


1 88  The  Old  Mill-wheel. 

These  mysteries  did  nature  teach 

As  on  we  moved  with  noiseless  tread, 

And  thus  upon  the  starlit  beach 
The  sea  gave  up  its  dead. 


THE    OLD    MILL-WHEEL. 

THERE'S  music  in  the  glen 

Where  the  bright  water  tosses, 
As  the  rocky  shelf  it  crosses, 
With  a  never-ending  song 
That  the  echoing  hills  prolong, 

And  give  back  again  and  again. 
From  the  dam  on  the  hill 
Pours  the  white  wave  at  will, 
But  the  old  mill-wheel  stands  still. 

There's  a  rushing  in  the  glen — 
A  movement  of  life 
In  the  wild  water's  strife, 
In  the  tossing  of  the  trees 
In  the  arms  of  the  breeze 

That  shakes  them  again  and  again. 


The  Old  Mill-wheel.  189 

There's  life  arid  there's  will 

The  deep  gorge  to  fill 

But  the  old  mill-wheel  stands  still. 

There's  sunshine  in  the  glen — 

It  glitters  on  the  branches, 

On  the  white  wave  it  launches 

Like  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 

Or  an  avalanche  of  snow 
Ever  falling,  falling,  falling — but  then 

Though  the  pleasant  sunbeams  fill 

The  gorge  beneath  the  hill 

Bleak  and  cold  stands  the  wheel  of  the  mill 

It  stands  a  thing  apart — 

A  shadow  in  the  brightness, 

A  spectre  in  the  lightness, 

Amidst  the  music,  dumb  ; 

In  the  sunbeams,  black  and  numb ; 
Like  a  sorrow-stricken  heart, 

That  no  pulses  ever  thrill, 

That  no  joys  of  life  can  fill, 

So  the  old  mill-wheel  stands  still. 


l  go  The  Spanish  Wreck. 


THE   SPANISH  WRECK. 

ANCHORED  fast  in  the  yellow  sand, 

Like  a  mammoth  skeleton  bare  to  view, 
The  ribs  of  the  wreck,  when  the  tide  is  down, 

Their  shadows  fling  to  the  waters  blue. 
Streamer,  and  flag,  and  woven  sail, 

And  mast,  and  yard,  there  are  none  to  see, 
Nor  decks  to  tread,  nor  helm  to  guide, 

Nor  wealth  in  foundered  argosy. 

No  one  living  there  is  who  saw 

The  vessel  drift  to  her  dreaded  fate, 
When  night  hung  black  on  the  iron  coast. 

And  surges  roared  with  a  voice  of  hate. 
They  are  gone  who  once  heard  the  minute  gun 

The  tale  of  peril  and  woe  proclaim, 
What  time  the  flag  with  its  union  down 

Was  shown  by  the  levin  and  rocket's  flame. 

Bleaching  below  in  coral  caves 

Are  they  who  trod  on  the  gallant  deck ; 

Vainly  aloft  the  tempest  raves, 

They  sleep  with  the  gold  of  the  Spanish  wreck, 


The- Spanish  Wreck.  191 

With  rusted  blades  and  mouldering  guns, 
And  caskets  of  fashion  and  value  rare  : 

The  fruit  of  many  a  toilsome  hour 
And  deed  of  daring  is  wasted  there. 

But  when  the  full  moon  is  eclipsed, 

Once  in  a  term  of  many  years, 
And  the  sounding  sea  is  as  black  as  death, 

Strange  stir  of  life  in  the  wreck  appears. 
Masts  shoot  up  from  the  deck  restored, 

Sheathing  glitters  along  her  sides, 
Figures  move  to  and  fro  aboard, 

And  lanterns  gleam  in  the  shuddering  tide. 

Manhood  is  there,  and  beauty  fair  ; 

The  cup  i's  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
And  bearded  lips  are  dashed  with  wine, 

And  laughter  floats  on  the  air  to  land. 
Then  a  sudden  rush  of  armed  men — 

A  clash  of  steel  !  a  cry  of  woe  ! 
The  vision  fades  into  naught  again, 

And  rayless  the  midnight  waters  flow. 


1 92  The  Indian  Summer. 

But  sorrow  betides  the  luckless  wight 

Whoe'er  doth  the  phantom  revel  see — 
E'er  ever  a  year  pass  over  his  head, 

His  bed  with  the  drowned  of  the  wreck  shall  be. 
Seek  not  to  fathom  these  mysteries  dark — 

Seek  not  for  visions,  but  pass  thy  way — 
Nor  question  the  crimes  of  the  sunken  bark  : 

Let  them  sleep,  let  them  sleep  till  the  final  day. 


THE   INDIAN   SUMMER. 

AUTUMN  has  come  and  winter's  step  is  near, 
His  footsteps  rustle  in  the  falling  leaves, 

His  chill  breath  murmurs  in  the  herbage  sere, 

His  frown  would  darken  even  the  garnered  sheaves  ; 

But  kindly  nature  mitigates  his  frown, 

And  gilds  the  dying  year  with  glories  all  her  own. 

Before  our  raptured  senses  now  unfold 

Scenes  of  a  pageant  summer,  one  more  bright, 

In  varied  hues  and  garniture  of  gold 

Than  "  leafy  June  "  e'er  offered  to  the  sight. 


The  Indian  Summer.  193 

The  sweeping  wooded-hills  are  all  ablaze, 
And  myriad  rainbows  glimmer  through    the  golden 
haze. 

The  limpid  streams  that  saunter  by, 

A  burnished  mirror  in  each  tiny  wave. 
Reward  the  gaze  of  the  delighted  eye  ; 

For  jewels,  such  as  decked  Aladdin's  cave, 
Shine  from  their  liquid  depths  in  wavering  light, 
From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  till  dewy  night. 

And  every  bright-winged  and  melodious  bird, 
That  loves  the  woodland  haunt  and  sylvan  dell, 

By  the  strong  spirit  -of  his  nature  stirred, 
Pours  to  the  parting  year  his  wild  farewell. 

Alas  !  too  soon  the  gorgeous  masque  must  end, 

And  chilling  skies  o'er  leafless  bowers  in  sadness  bend. 

How  like  a  monarch  regal  autumn  dies  ! 

With  Tynan  robes  and  gems  his  couch  is  strown  ; 
Above,  the  drapery  of  the  golden  skies, 

Beneath,  the  splendors  of  a  matchless  throne. 
Music  to  fill  with  joy  the  dying  ear, 
And  bear  the  spirit  to  a  brighter  sphere. 
9 


194          Sauntaug  Lake,  Lynnfield,  Mass. 

So  died  the  Sachem,  lord  of  these  deep  woods, 
Brightly  apparelled,  in  the  days  of  old  ; 

So  lay  in  state  beside  the  rolling  floods, 

Gay  with  flamingo  plumes  and  clasps  of  gold  ; 

And  trophies  of  the  battle  and  the  chase, 

Smiling  on  death  with  unaverted  face. 


SAUNTAUG   LAKE,    LYNNFIELD,  MASS. 

DEEP  nestled  amid  verdant  trees, 

That  e'en  at  noon  a  twilight  make, 
Scarce  ruffled  by  the  passing  breeze, 

There  lies  a  solitary  lake. 
A  ruder  gust,  'tis  true,  may  curl 

Its  dimpled  surface  now  and  then  ; 
But  soon  subsides  the  transient  whirl 

And  all  is  calm  again. 

Yet  sleep  the  waters  calm  and  bright, 
Where  wavering  trees  inverted  grow, 

And  many  a  fathom  from  the  light 
The  plummet  line  will  sink  below. 


A  Winter  Roundelay.  195 

So  from  the  garish  world  concealed, 
Lives  some  serene  and  quiet  heart, 

Its  depth  of  feeling  unrevealed, 
A  thing  alone — apart. 

The  few  who  seek  may  haply  find 

Charms  that  escape  the  careless  eye, 
Pulses  that  thrill  to  fingers  kind, 

Throbs  that  to  kindred  throbs  reply — 
And  as  the  skies  their  azure  hue 

To  this  sequestered  lake  impart, 
So  heaven  itself,  serene  and  true, 

Is  mirrored  in  the  quiet  heart. 


A   WINTER  ROUNDELAY. 

WITH  gentle  step  hath  winter  come, 

As  loath  to  spurn  the  leaflets  sere, 
The  withered  garlands  autumn  flings 

On  summer's  melancholy  bier. 
The  gray-beard  pauses  ere  he  drops 

The  snow-white  shroud  on  Nature's  face 
Surveys  her  rigid  lineaments, 

And  marks  their  yet  surviving  grace: 


1 96  A  Winter  Roundelay. 

Deal  gently  with  her,  sexton  cold, 

A  moment  spare  her  ere  you  close 
The- cere-cloths  o'er  her  lifeless  form, 

And  leave  her  to  her  long  repose. 
Tears  for  the  last  we  fain  must  shed, 

A  moment  ring  the  funeral  knell 
Then — homage  to  the  reigning  king, 

And  a  festal  peal  from  the  changful  bell ! 
For  the  Frosty  King  of  the  Northern  Pole 
Is  as  merry  a  king  as  Old  King  Cole. 
I  have  called  him  cold,  but  his  brave  frame 
With  its  mail  of  ice  hides  a  heart  of  flame. 
Prayers  for  the  dead 
Are  so  briefly  said, 

And  the  tears  of  mourners  are  freely  shed, 
But  soon  transformed  to  smiles  instead. 
'Tis  the  way  of  the  world,  we  must  take  as  we  find  it, 
.  The  heart  may  give  laws,  but  the  heart  cannot  bind  it, 

A  loyal  huzza  for  the  king  of  the  hour, 

A  supple  knee  for  the  footstool  of  power  ! 
What  are  pledges  forgotten,  and  grief  for  the  past, 
The  Kaiser  by  right,  after  all,  is  the  last. 
Hurrah  for  King  Winter  !  the  king  of  good  cheer — 
The  Lord  of  the  Seasons,  the  king  of  the  year  ! 


A   Winter  Roundelay.  197 

Sweeping  through  the  forest, 

Howls  the  bitter  wind- 
Cutting  as  ingratitude, 

As  perjured  love  unkind  ; 
Shakes  the  cottage  casement, 

Rudely  enters  in, 
Smites  the  shivering  cotter 

Through  his  raiment  thin  : 
Pinches  aged  eld, 

Freezes  bloodless  youth  : 
Like  a  sworn  tormentor 

Enemy  of  ruth — 

To  the  deathly  hearth-stone 

Childish  arms  have  brought 
Little  withered  fagots 

Far  and  hardly  sought. 
Little  feet  frost-bitten, 

Track  the  ice  with  blood, 
To  that  cottage  hearth-stone, 

From  the  distant  wood. 

But  the  fires  are  bright  in.  the  grand  old  hall, 
And  the  lamps  are  lit  for  a  festival, 


198  A  Winter  Roundelay. 

And  bright  tropic  flowers  in  every  room 

Exhale  their  souls  in  sweet  perfume, 

And  the  music  times  the  twinkling  feet, 

Of  the  fair  who  pant  in  summer  heat ; 

The  wine  cup  passes  and  the  revellers  swear 

The  world  is  a  world  without  a  care  : 

Nor  a  single  thought  will  they  fling  away, 

As  they  homeward  dart  in  the  fur-piled  sleigh, 

On  the  tiny- feet  that  have  trod  that  path, 

Or  the  hearts  that  have  shrunk  from  the  winter's  wrath, 

But  afar,  never  seen  by  mortal  eyes, 
There's  a  realm  in  endless  light  that  lies, 
More  fair  than  the  lord  of  Italian  skies, 
Where  changeless  summer  forever  beams, 
Where  a  fountain  of  joy  forever  streams, 
Where  music  dwells  in  the  very  air, 
And  the  spirit  of  love  is  every  where ; 
When  the  tiny  feet  will  bleed  no  more, 
For  soft  are  the  paths  of  that  blessed  shore  ; 
And  the  heavy  cross  is  left  behind, 
And  amaranth  wreaths  the  temples  bind  ; 
And  he  who  the  weariest  path  has  trod, 
Will  nearest  stand  to  the  throne  of  God. 


The  Betrayer.  199 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER. 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HER  WEDDING-DAY,  OCT.  31,  1878. 
I  NEED  not  say  blest  be  this  day, 

For  blessings  always  wait 
On  those  whom  truest  love  unites, 

"  Equal  to  either  fate." 
To  one  all  worthy  of  the  gift 
*        We  gave  the  child  we  loved, 
For  we  believed  him  true  as  steel, 

As  time  has  more  than  proved. 
May  flowers  arise  beside  your  path, 

'Neath  Fortune's  favoring  breath, 
Naught  can  two  trusting  hearts  divide, 

Not  even  the  hand  of  Death. 


THE  BETRAYER. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  IN  THE  ROYAL  GALLERY  AT  BRUSSELS. 

THROUGH  the  hushed  midnight  from  the  city  gates, 

Great-eyed  with  nameless  terror  comes  there  one 

In  sordid  garb  and  disheveled  hair, 

Clutching  a  purse  from  which  each  step  he  takes 


2OO  The  Betrayer. 

Echoes  the  clink  of  coin — a  bait  for  robbers  ; 

Sudden  he  stops — his  eyes  dilated,  mark 

Flame-reddened  smoke  arising  from  a  hollow, 

His  ears  have  caught  the  ring  of  busy  hammers, 

Token  of  human  neighborhood,  mechanics, 

Whose  daily  bread  is  earned  by  daily  wage, 

The  fruits  of  honest  toil.     The  wayfarer 

Moves  toward  the  sound.     Then  comes  a  brief  demand, 

A  Roman  sentry's  challenge,  "  Who  goes  there  ?  " 

"A  friend."     "  If  so,  tell  me  the  name  thou  bearest." 

"Judas  Iscariot"     The  centurion  scowled. 

"  I  would  not  bear  that  name  for  all  the  wealth 

Of  all  the  Orient  kings.     No,  naked,  rather 

Would  face  the  lions  in  the  Flavian  circus, 

Or  make  my  bed  in  Etna's  crimson  gorge." 

"  What  make  you  here  by  torchlight  ?  " 

The  crouching  artisans  an  opening  made, 

Disclosing  to  the  wild,  enquiring  glare 

Prone  on  the  earth  a  monstrous  Latin  cross. 

"  To-morrow  morn,"  the  stern  centurion  said, 

"  That  fatal  tree  will  bear  its  weighty  fruit, 

We  but  prepare  the  cross,  you  send  the  victim, 

To-night  the  wood  is  fair,  to-morrow's  eve 

Will  see  it  dark  with  blood,  each  drop  of  which 


The  Betrayer.  201 

Were  worth  a  nation's"  ransom.     Those  in  power 

Drove  a  sharp  bargain  with  the  traitor  Judas, 

Your  God  or  gods  are  none  of  mine,  but  yet 

I  hold  the  prophet  we  shall  slay  to-morrow 

Guiltless  of  all  offence.     What  multitudes 

Followed  his  steps  and  hung  upon  his  lips 

As  if  Apollo's  music  or  the  voice 

Of  Orpheus  had  touched  them  ! 

With  a  wave  of  his  right  hand  he  might  have  raised  a 

host, 

And  swayed  it  like  a  warrior  king,  but  he, 
With  all  the  means  of  war,  still  counselled  peace 
And  preached  to  converts  ;  so,  to-morrow  noon 
A  dozen  spears  will  hold  the  mob  in  check." 
Then  to  the  traitor's  soul  appeared  at  last, 
In  all  its  appalling  magnitude, 
The  greatness  of  his  crime.     He  had  betrayed 
No  man,  but  all  humanity.     He  saw 
Before  his  glaring  eyes  the  radiant  form 
Of  Him  who  had  been  Teacher,  Master,  Friend, 
Pierced  by  relentless  steel,  ashen  in  hue, 
Yet  flecked  with  drops  of  blood  ;  the  hands  that  ever 
Opened  to  give,  or  else  were  raised  to  bless, 
Mangled  and  torn ;  the  voice  that  bade  young  children 


202  The  Weather. 

Come  to  his  sheltering  arms,  convulsed  with  sobs, 
Yet  breathing  with  distinct  and  sweetest  music, 
Forgiveness  to  his  foes,  yea,  even  to  Judas. 
But  tlio'  his  Saviour  could  remit  his  sin, 
Treason  could  not  forgive  itself.     He  knew 
That  life  for  him  would  be  perpetual  death  ; 
That  even  the  leper  would  reject  his  alms, 
That  woman's  love,  foretaste  of  paradise, 
Could  ne'er  be  his,  and  forth  into  the  night 
He  fled  to  death.     Inexorable  judge, 
An  executioner  himself.     His  crime 
Immeasurably  great,  but  impotent, 
Like  every  monstrous  evil. 


THE  WEATHER. 

THE  weather  in  these  latter  days 

Is  really  most  trying, 
One  moment  you  are  shivering, 

The  next  one  you  are  frying. 
You  go  abroad  in  linen  pants 

In  blazing  sunshine  dying  ; 


Sons  of  Erin  !      To  the  Battle  f  203 

Meanwhile  the  nimble  mercury 

To  ninety-nine  is  flying  ; 
When  lo  !  from  south  to  east  the  wind 

Wears  round — how  mortifying  ! 
At  night  beneath  a  coverlid 

And  blankets  you  are  lying. 
But  ten  to  one,  at  6  A.  M., 

With  murderous  heat  you're  sighing, 
Or  draughts  of  water  dashed  with  ice 

To  cool  your  fauces  plying. 
The  weather  now  is  tropical 

With  that  of  Borneo  vicing 
And  then  again  in  polar  realms, 

Old  Boston  seems  to  lie  in  ; 
It's  a  sorry  clime  for  living  in, 
But  a  first  rate  one  to  die  in. 


SONS  OF  ERIN  !     TO  THE  BATTLE  ! 

SONS  of  Erin  !  to  the  battle  ! 

Lo  !  the  iron  die  is  cast, 
Even  now  the  cannon's  rattle 

Rises  on  the  ocean's  blast. 


204  Sons  of  Erin  !     To  the  Battle  ! 

Years  on  years  of  bitter  anguish, 
Wasting  famine,  grinding  chain, 

Hearts  in  exile  doomed  to  languish, 
These  have  not  been  in  vain. 

Patient  waiting — humble  craving — 

How  has  England  paid  you  back  ; 
See  !  she  sends  the  bloodhounds  raving 

Fiery-mouthed  upon  your  track.  ' 
Even  now  the  axe  is  gleaming, 

Gloom  the  scaffold  and  the  block ; 
While  the  bloody  red-cross  streaming 

Leads  her  legions  to  the  shock. 

Up  then  !  men  of  heart  and  spirit, 

Worthy  sons  of  fatherland, 
Men  of  Ireland,  who  inherit 

Gallant  souls  the  test  to  stand. 
Heaven  the  way  to  death  is  lighting, 

Bravely  fight  and  nobly  fall, 
Better  die  for  freedom  fighting, 

Than  survive  the  Saxon's  thrall. 


Sons  of  Erin  !     To  the  Battle  !  205 

Shrink  not  at  the  cannon's  thunder, 

Quail  not  at  the  serried  van, 
Charge  !  and  cleave  their  ranks  asunder, 

Give  the  pike  to  horse  and  man. 
Rouse  ye  for  the  fierce  ordeal 

And  the  patriot's  soldier's  joy- 
In  the  fiery  onslaught  be  all 

Like  the  men  of  Fontenoy. 

Sons  of  Erin  !  proudly  gazing 

On  your  deeds  the  world  shall  stand, 
While  your  emerald  banner  blazing 

Sheds  a  halo  round  your  hand. 
Win  a  noble  page  in  story, 

And  the  record  proud  shall  be, 
Living  in  immortal  glory, 

Ireland  fought  and  she  was  free  / 


END. 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


N°  408982 

Durivage,  F.A. 
The  Glenalooru 


GU 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


